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A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


BY FORTUNE DU BOISGOBEY. 


17 TO 27 VaKdeW/tef^ 3 t 
E wYog^* 


PtAAfiirlA T.iKMiwtTA 



Ney.' York Fireside Companion. 

teseiitially a Paper for tie Heme Cirele. 


PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESn)E COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 
living fiction writers. 

Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing ever published, and its spe- 
cialties are features peculiar to this journal. 


A Fashion Article, embracing the newest modes, prices, etc,, by a noted 
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The Answers to Correspondents contain reliable information on every con- 
ceivable subject. : 


TERMS:— The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one year, 
on receipt of $3: two copies for $5. Getters-up of clubs can afterward add 
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copies sent free. 


GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 


P. 0. Box 3751. 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


THE 


Consequences of a .Duel 



A PARISIAN ROMANCE. 


BT 

F. bu BOISGOBEY. 

// 


[Translated by A. D Hall.1 


SEP 25 1885 ' 

K 

^ washim^^ 


NEW YORK: 

OEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewater Street, 


\T 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by 
GEORGE MUNRO, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 


P. DU BOISGOBEY’S WOEKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBEAEY (POCKET EDITION) 


HO. PRICE. 

82 Sealed Lips 20 

104 The Coral Pin 30 

264 Piedouche, a French Detective . . . . 10 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. First half . . .20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. Second half . . 20 

453 The Lottery Ticket 20 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband ,20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, The Steel Gauntlets . . 20 

523 The Consequences of a Duel 20 



THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL 


CHAPTER 1. 

This is a story of yesterday. The early spring weather of last 
year had already brought out the leaves on the old chestuutdrees of 
the Tuileries, and the sprouting grass was beginning to clothe with 
verdure the naked plains which border the Seine between Asnidre» 
and Saint -Denis. 

An open barouche, drawn by two good horses, and driven by a 
coachman in livery, had passed the bridge of Saint-Ouen, and was 
proceeding at a good speed along the dusty road across the penin- 
sula of Gennevilliers. 

The occupants of the carriage were three, three men, all young; 
the eldest was not more than thirty* They had not come to break- 
fast joyously upon the grass, for they were dressed in black from 
head to foot, and people who pride themselves on knowing the cus- 
toms of society do not dress thus for a picnic in the country. 

“Look! there are some fellows going to enjoy themselves by 
crossing swords,'' exclaimed a laborer, engaged in breaking stones 
by the roadside. 

“ This isn’t a bad place for that sort of work," rejoined one of 
his companions, leaning upon his pick to w^atch the carriage 
pass. 

“ Those suburban observers are very clever," said the occupant of 
the back seat of the barouche, a big fellow, with a pleasant face 

“ How the devil could they have guessed that one of us was 
going to fight?" demanded the tall, dark man, who sat opposite to 
him. 

“ By Jove! It wasn’t a very difficult thing. We are three, ana 
there are always three when a duel is to be fought, the principal 
and his two seconds; we are all three in frock coats and buttoned 
up to the chin, as is the fashion in such affairs; it is scarcely two 


6 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A J)UEL. 


o’clock, atid there is no reason why we should he taking a dilve for 
pleasure. Good Heavens! ^hat should we be here for if Mon- 
sieur de Pontaumur and his acolytes had not given us a meeting to 
settle a foolish quarrel? That laborer, from his appearance, has 
probably served in the army, and he understood at a glance what 
was up. Only, he was mistaken in speaking of swords, as Maurice 
is to fight with the pistol. I’ll be hanged if I know why with the 
pistol, by the way. That was the fashion under the Restoration, 
but it is no longer.” 

” You forget, my dear Coulanges, that 1 did not have the choice 
of weapons,” said the third occupant of the carriage, genlly. 

This last speaker was small and light-complexioned; he had good 
features and a pleasant expression, 

‘‘ It was y^our own fault that you didn’t, Saulieu; there was no 
need of striking that beast of a Pontaumur before a dozen people, 
and without any reason, too.” 

” There is always a reason, when one renders himself liable to ac- 
cepting a challenge and the conditions of his adversary.” 

“Well, doubtless, there was a reason; but you have not deemed 
it proper to tell me of yours,” said the dark man, who had been 
astonished at the laborer’s perspicacity. 

‘‘ Pardon me, but you were at the club when Monsieur de Pon- 
taumur, who was my partner at whist, reproached me in bitter 
toms of having made a mistake.” 

” Oh! He told you that you played like a dummy. It was not very 
polite, but it was not a grave injury, and 1 assure you that 1, George 
Courtenay, who am not very good-tempered, would not have re- 
sponded to such a remark with a blow. And, moreover, 1 do not 
like the man who uttered it. But he had received the blow, and 
there was nothing for him to do but to efface the insult. You had 
placed yourself absolutely in the wrong, and we were obliged to 
submit to the tjxactions of his seconds, two men whom I like no bet- 
ter than him. There is one of them whom 1 especially mistrust.” 

” Corleon!” exclaimed Coulanges. ” It is said that he cheats at 
cards. 1 have never seen him play, but 1 think that ^ he is quite 
capable of assisting fortune, and 1 can not abide him.” 

“Nevertheless,” said Courtenay, “you are going to give this 
Pontaumur a good lesson, Maurice. I am astonished that he has 
chosen the pistol, for he knows that you are a magnificent marks- 
man, and he himself is by no means a bad swordsman.” 

“ It matters to me little how I fight, provided 1 do fight,” mur- 
mured Maurice Saulieu. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. , T 

Courtenay gazed fixedly at his friend, who turned his eyes away^ 
and the conversation ceased. 

However brave a man may be, or however accustomed to affairs 
of this suit, he feels the need of collecting himself a little during the 
last few minutes which precede a meeting brought about by serious 
causes, and Courtenay was beginning to suspect that this duel had 
an origin which the two combatants did not wish to disclose. He 
knew thoroughly the character of Maurice, who was his oldest and 
best friend; they had been classmates at college, had entered society 
together, and were seldom apart, although their fortunes were un- 
equal and they were very unlike in tastes and temperament. But^ 
like love, friendship is often founded orf contrasts. This was the 
first time that Maurice had hidden anything from George, who never 
concealed anything from him, not oven his love affairs. 

Maurice, although he was calm, was silent and preoccupied. 
Coulanges bore a grave air, perhaps because he felt obliged to; he 
was much less intimate than George Courtenay with Maurice Sau* 
lieu, and he had been chosen as a second chiefly on account of his 
profession. He was a graduate of the medical school. 

No one would have guessed it from the life he led, for he was to 
be met with wherever there was anything amusing going on. He 
had become a doctor ast^ he would have become a lawyer, in order 
not to go against the wishes of his family; but, his father having 
left him thirty thousand francs a year, he did not bother himself 
about the practice of his profession. 

“ We are nearing the place,” he said, to break a silence which 
weighed upon him. ” I recognize that field of asparagus. I served 
as a second last year at the same place, in the old redoubt of Genne- 
villiers, which was not torn down after the siege. It might have 
been erected tor the express use of duelists, for it was never bom- 
barded by the Prussians, and it is an excellent place to cross swords 
or to exchange pistol shots.” 

” {Speaking of pistols,” said George, “ you made sure, 1 suppose, 
that those which these gentlemen are going to use have never been 
fired before?” 

” 1 went and bought them yesterday at Galand’s, with Monsieur 
Corleon, who pretends to be a connoisseur of weapons, and we both 
examined them and saw that they were new. We also examined 
the powder and balls. And it was all placed in a box which Cor- 
leon kept, after having locked it in my presence, and given me the 
key. Unless 1 had'placed seals upon the box I could not have taken 
more precautions.” 


8 


THE C02!sSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


“ VVbat you did was sufficient. We are agreed with them as to 
the conditions ot the duel, twenty paces and fire simultaneously at 
the word of command; the fire will cease after the third shot ex- 
changed, even if neither of the adversaries is touched.*’ 

“ Exactly. That is the precise programme. And here is the 
path which leads to the redoubt that you see below there.” 

” We have not arrived the first. 1 see another carriage; Pontau. 
• mur and his seconds have already descended. Jean,” to the coach- 
man, ” do not go any further.” 

The carriage stopped. They alighted, and Dr. Coulanges took 
from under the seat a case of surgical instruments, which he had 
never yet had occasion to use. 

“In case of accident,” he said in Courtenay’s ear, “the car- 
riages can advance.” 

” 1 hope that nurs will take us all three hack sate and sound,” 
murmured George. 

“We have no time to lose,” said Maurice Saulieu. ” Those gen- 
tlemen have gone across the fields. Do not let us Keep them wait- 
ing.” 

George passed his arm through that of his friend, and sensible 
Coulanges had the tact to walk on ahead, thinking that the two 
friends might like to be alone during tire short walk they had to 
take before reaching the place ot rendezvous. 

“My dear Maurice.” said George, “1 am sure that you are 
going to emerge from this without a scratch, but, as you know, a 
duel with pistols is a regular lottery, and, in view of the very im- 
probable chance of anything hai)pening to you, have you any com- 
mands to give me?” 

“One only, my friend,” responded F^aulieu, firmly. “Promise 
me that, it 1 am killed, you will go yourself and tell Marianne.” 

“ Mademoiselle Mezenc, your betrothed! It would kill her also, 
and if ^mu should exact that I fulfill such a commission, 1 should do 
it through an intermediary. She has a mother, and to her mother 1 
should address myself.” 

“ Her mother is in such a state ot health that the least excite- 
ment would be fatal to her, as you know very well,” 

“ 1 know that she has been paralyzed tor two years, but the blow 
would be less severe to her than to her daughter.” 

“ Perhaps; and yet 1 beg you to do what 1 ask. 1 have counted 
on your not refusing, and 1 promised — ” 

“ Whom? Marianne?” 

“ Yes, Marianne.” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


9 


“She knows that you are going to fighi 

“ She knows it. 1 liad to tell her.” 

“ByJovef 1 believe 1 am dreaming. What! you adored that 
young girl, you would have already married her if you had had 
enough fortune for two; you inherited money three months ago and 
you immediately asked me to demand Mademoiselle Mezenc's hand, 
which was accorded you without difficulty, you are to be married 
after Easter; she loves you with all her heart, and you could imag- 
ine nothing better than to go and tell her that you were to risk 
your life'^to-day ! While you were in the vein of committing follies, 
you should have invited the poor girl to be present at the duel.” 

“ I could not hide from her that 1 was going to fight.” 

George started. He began to have a glimmering of the truth. 

“Listen, Maurice,” he said in a voice which trembled a little: 
“ I have purposely abstained from asking you why you sought a 
quarrel with Pontaumur, but if Mademoiselle Mezenc has been 
mixed up in any fashion in this unfortunate affair, you must tell 
me, were it only to enable me to defend her if you were not there. 
1 have for her as much esteem and friendship as—” 

“ As she has for you,” interrupted Maurice; “ 1 know it, my dear 
George; and 1 am certain that, if 1 miss him, you would no more 
allow her to be insulted than 1 would.” 

“ What! Has this Pontaumur allowed himself to — ” 

“ Not content with paying Marianne undesiied attentions, when 
he met her in society, he has said odious things about her, which 1 
did not hear but which were repeated to me.” 

“ What could he say?” 

“ Spare me from telling you. It is better that you should always 
be ignorant, whatever happens. 1 did not wish that Marianne’s 
name should be pronounced in connection with a duel between this 
man and me. I had, therefore, no other choice than to act as 1 
have; to insult the wretch publicly on the first pretext. 1 shall kill 
him, if Heaven is just, but he may kill me, and in that case, 1 count 
upon you.” ^ _ 

“ To avenge you? 1 swear it.” % ; 

“ No, that would be to awaken the memory of a calumny which 
Pontaumur will not dare to repeat. 1 count upon you to protect an 
unfortunate young girl who will soon be alone in the world, for her 
mother has not long to live, and, if it were not for me, her aunt, 
Madame Fresnay, would soon cease to have anything to do with her. 
But, here we are. W ill you promise me to go to Marianne, if any* 
thing happens to me?” 


10 THE COHSEQUEHOES OF A DUEL, 

“ Well, yes, 1 promise; but 1 hope it will be you who will make 
the visit. Tou are a wonderful shot anfl you are perfectly cool, 
lou will lodge a bullet in that knave’s breast. Ah! if *1 had known! 
It would have been 1 who would have given him the blow.” 

” Gentlemen, they are waiting for us,” said Coulanges, turning 
to the tw'o friends, whom he was a tew steps ahead of. 

” Here we are,” responded Maurice Saulieu, tranquilly. 

M. de Pontaumur and his friends were standing at the entranca 
of the redoubt, which was surrounded by cultivated fields. The 
nearest house was five or six hundred yards away. 

M. Corleon carried the box which contained the pistols. He ap- 
peared well enough, whatever Courtenay might say, and seemed 
rather nervous, this being doubtless the first time he had figured in 
an afiair of honor. The other second was a retired officer, who was 
a member of the club, and who was present when the blow was 
struck. This latter could not but have a bad opinion of the adver- 
sary of the man he represented, and he did not hesitate to show it. 

As for M. de Pontaumur himself, he was a man approaching 
forty and of Herculean build, but his large size did not prevent him 
from having the appearance of a gentleman. He might even pass 
tor a handsome man, although his complexion lacked freshness 
and his hair was beginning to be slightly gray. He was no longer 
what is called in the theater a lover, but he might very well have 
played tha strong leading roles, and if he did not generally please 
men because of his haughty manners, he could please women who 
like strength and massiveness. He had the ” fatal air,” as they 
used to say in the old melodramas. 

The two parties saluted each other coldly, the principals drew 
away a little and the seconds came together to proceed to the final 
preparations. 

” Gentlemen,” commenced M. Corleon in a grieved tone, ” 1 fear 
that it is too late to stop this duel, which we all deplore. However, 
my friend, M. de Pontaumur, has commissioned me to make a last 
attempt at reconciliation. He is the insulted party and his bravery 
is beyond question. He can, therefore, allow himself to express a 
desire lor an arrangement, which—” 

” Pardon me, monsieur,” interrupted George Courtenay, “ I must, 
in the first place, call to your attention that an affair as grave as 
this is, can not be arranged. We are not children. In the second 
place, I do not see how we could come to an understanding, unless 
your friend is content to accept the blow he received.” 

” Aou know as \^ell as 1, monsieur, that he has the right to de- 


THE CONSEQUEisCES OF A DUEL. 


11 


mand reparation. But if Monsieur Saiilieii were willing, in our 
presence, to acknowledge that be was wrong—'’ 

“ Do you mean to apoloirize?” 

Certainly. It seems to me that, in such a case, it is almost a 
duty.” 

“ It may seem so to you,” said George, dryly, “ but it does not 
seem so to me. That JSaulieu was too quicK, is possible; but, in 
such a case, a man of honor has nothing to do but to submit to the 
consquences of his rashness. 

” 1 may add,” said Corleon, “ that the accomplishment of this 
duty would have nothing painful about it. We were all present at 
the scene of violence which was the cause of this meeting and we 
should understand it if Monsieur Saulieu expressed his regret for 
having attacked causelessly another member of the club.” 

” If Monsieur de Pontaumur could be satisfied with such a decla- 
ration, he can not be very exacting.” 

‘‘The apology would be stated in the report which we should 
draw up,” said Captain Morgan. 

“And which j^ou would publish, of course. Come, gentlemen, 
all this is not serious. Let us end it, 1 beg.” 

“ You will not refuse, 1 hope, to submit our proposition to Mon- 
sieur Saulieu,” said Corleon. 

“ 1 refuse categorically, because 1 am certain that he would not 
accept it. If he had wished to make an apology, he would have 
begun by doing so. Now, it is too late. It is a pity, perhaps, but 
at the point where we now are, we must go on to the end.” 

“ Permit me to say, that it is a great responsib^ility that you are 
taking upon yourself.” 

“ A responsibility which does not weigh upon me at all. 1 know 
my friend’s wishes and judge it useless to consult him. We have 
lost enough time. Will you open that box?” 

“ Since you exact it. The doctor has the key.” 

“ Here it is,” said the Coulanges. 

“ It was a precaution which we both thought it best to take,” 
added Corleon. “ There can not be too many guarantees to equal- 
ize the chances of an encounter. We bought together the pistols 
and the ammunition. The box was closed by Monsieur Coulanges, 
and you can see for yourself that it has not been opened since yes- 
terday.” 

“lam quite convinced of it,” growled George, with a shrug of 
the shoulders to show how ridiculous these precautions and dis- 
courses seemed to him. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


vz 

“ No one suspects you of tampering with it/’ added the doctor, 
impatiently. 

Courtenay examined the pistols, assured himselt that they had 
never been fired, and that the balls were of light weight, poured a 
little powder into his hand, scrutinized it, and said: 

“ It is all right. 1 will count oft the paces with Monsieur Morgan, 
while you load the weapons.” 

“ V?ilh the doctor’s help,” said M. Corleon. “It is not proper 
for me to do it alone.” 

“ Coulanges will load one ot the pistols and you the other.” 

“ That is what 1 meant. You see we have selected old-fashioned, 
muzzle-loading pistols. Y'ou are surer of what is done than with 
ready prepared cartridges, and they are quite as accurate, too accu- 
rate, alas! for, at twenty paces and with fire-arms, a misfortune is to 
be feared.” 

“We did not come here to fire into the air and breakfast together 
afterward,” replied Courtenay, brusquely. 

“Will you come with me, monsieur?” he added, addressing the 
captain, who replied: 

“ 1 am at your orders. And, if you are wiling, 1 would prefer 
that you should measure the distanc3. You are taller than 1; your 
strides will be longer, and 1 think you do not wish to bring the com- 
batants any nearer together than possible.” 

“ Certainly not, 1 wished to place them thirty paces apart in the 
beginning.” 

The ground was selected. By placing the adversaries face to face 
near the entrance of the redoubt, a perfect equality was obtained. 
They had the sun on their side, and no wall or tree could favor the 
shot of one or the other. 

W Idle George was pacing the soil with Captain Morgan M. Corleon 
and the doctor performed their duty with much zeal. M. Corleon 
brought to it a minute care, and he understood better than Coulanges 
the rather delicate task. Without him, Coulanges would have for* 
gotten to clear out the muzzles of the pistols, and when, after this 
proceeding, they poured in the powder, he showed the doctor how 
to measure the charges so that they should be equal. 

He absolutely insisted that Coulanges should choose two balls and 
give him one. One would have said that he was afraid to select one 
himself; and before putting it into the pistol, he held it an instant 
between his thumb and forefinger, as if to show that he did not put 
it in his pocket. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 13 

Coulanges, who did not* attach so much importance to these de- 
tails, thought only of carefully loading his own weapon. 

The task was finished, when the two other seconds returned,jif ter 
Laving marked the places by thrusting their canes into the ground. 

“ There is nothing more to be done, gentlemen,” said Corleon, 
‘‘ except to draw the pistols by lot. I will cover them with my 
handkerchief and the adversaries can choose without seeing them.” 

” What is the use of this complication?” demanded Courtenay, 
out of tem'{)er. ‘‘ We shall never end, if we listen to you. You 
two were to prepare the weapons, and it is clear that everything was 
done correctly. Let us decide, if you are willing, that your friend 
shall use the pistol loaded by the doctor and that Saulieu shall use 
the other. Give it to me, 1 will take it to him, Captain Morgan, 
will you give Monsieur de Pontaumur the pistol Monsieur Coulanges 
holds in his hand?” 

This arranged, the seconds separated into two groups. 

” What does that imbecile mean by his drawing from under a 
handkerchief?” grumbled Courtenay, as he turned to join Maurice. 

Does he take us for prestidigitators and believe us capable of 
trickery?” 

” No,” said the doctor, ” but he is not ignorant periiays that he 
himself has been accused of cheating at baccarat, and he fears 
that he may be suspected of cheating on the duel ground.” 

” Ah I” said Courtenay between his teeth, ” we have to do with 
a fine gentleman, and this Pontaumur chooses his seconds well. 
One is stiff as a ramrod and the other does not inspire me with the 
least confidence. But you watched the operation of loading and 
are sure there was nothing underhand?” 

” Perfectly sure,” affirmed the doctor. ” 1 saw everything and 
even selected myself the bullets.” 

” Weil, never mind. If no one is touched at the first fire 1 shall 
demand that the roles be inverted. The captain and I will load the 
pistols. Now, my dear fellow, 1 have still a word to say to Saulieu, 
and 1 have no need of you to conduct him to his post.” 

” Very well; 1 will let you go, and remain here.” 

” 1 will rejoin you in a minute. This is a good place for the 
seconds.” 

Coulanges stopped where he was. Morgan and Corleon had joined 
their friend, and Courtenay went to his, who was quietly waiting a 
short distance away. 

” All is ready,” he said, handing him the pistol, which he had 
cocked. ” The captain will give the signal, and he has promised 


14 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


me not to be too slow. You know what you have to do: aim at the 
first command, and fire at the moment he pronounces the word 
threel after having said, one! two! at the precise moment, you un- 
derstand/’ 

“ Yes.” 

■ ‘ A second sooner or a second later would be considered dishon- 
orable.” 

“ 1 know it.” 

“ Hut there is no reason for you 1o be too much occupied with the 
signal. Y ou will hear it plainly and it is useless to keep your eye upon 
Morgan. Think only oi sighting your adversary and try not to 
miss him. Since 1 have known what preceded the blow, 1 would 
give anything to fight in your place. For, after all, 1 do not amount 
to much, and my life is not worth a great deal, while you are going 
to marry a charming young girl. But don't let us talk any more of 
that.” 

” Talk of it, on the contrary. 1 have your promise, old man, and 
1 expect you to keep it.” 

” 1 repeat, since you exact it, your will shall be done.” 

” 1 might have another request to make of you, only—” 

” Another! No more of this talk, now. It makes the hand trem- 
ble and injures the aim. We will continue the conversation when 
you have stretched Monsieur de Pontaumur upon the ground; for 1 
don’t doubt that you will do so. You are cool, and 1 have seen 
you hit the bull's eye five times out of seven. You \;vill at least 
break one of his ribs.” 

” What will be, will be. My cause is just and 1 do not fear death. 
That is all that is necessary. But, without returning to what you 
have promised to do it 1 am killed, 1 can tell you that you will find 
in my pocket-book, here upon my breast, in the pocket of my coat, 
papers which 1 ask you to read and examine.” 

‘‘ A will? That was quite useless. But, it is understood. Not 
a word more. This is the limit which you must not pass, my cane. 
Place yourself there. Your adversary is already at his post.” 

“lam ready. Give me your hand; that is not forbidden by the 
code,” said Maurice, smiling. 

” No, old fellow, and 1 give it to you gladly, because it will not 
be the last time. You have pulled up your cuffs and turned up the 
collar of your coat, 1 see, to hide any spot of white; that is right; 
and, above all, keep your side turned toward him. Ah! one word 
more: the weapon always rises, aim at the knee lo touch the heart. 
The trigger is a little stiff. Begin to pull gently at the word, two.” 


15 


THE CONSEQUE^h’CES OF A DUEL, 

“1 understand. Farewell, George; these gentlemen are becom- 
mg impatient. Do not delay longer or they will think that 1 am 
afraid and you are bracing me up.’’ 

“ Those who should say that would have to settle with me,” re- 
plied George, quitting his friend. 

The three otheuseconds had taken their position on a little mound, 
which overlooked the field of combat. Coulanges was greatl}' 
moved. He liked Saulieu very much and he was thinking of the 
dangerous efltects of firearms which mangle when they do not kill. 
M. Corleon was agitated and showed even more uneasiness than he 
felt perhaps. The captain appeared very calm, and was so in 
reality. 

“ 1 rely on your not pausing too much between the words of com- 
mand,” whispered Courtenay to him. 

M. Morgan responded by a gesture which signified: Be easy, I 
know my business; and, advancing a little, he cried; 

“ Gentlemen, are you ready?” 

The question was a simple formality, for the two combatants, the 
light shoulder forward and the pistol pointed to the ground, were 
awaiting the signal. 

It would have been impossible to decide which of the two was 
the calmer. Saulieu was a trifie pale, but he had the confident look 
of a man who has no fear and he carried his head erect. M. de 
Pontaumur, firm upon his legs, held himself steady, with frowning 
brow and eye fixed upon his opponent. With his dark complexion, 
pronounced features and large frame, he had the appearance of a 
bronze statue. 

His rather massive build was a marked disadvantage, tor Mau- 
rice, being very small, presented much less vulnerable surface. 

” Go on, captain,” murmured George, who was suflering cruelly 
from the anguish the bravest feel, when the life of a friend is at 
stake. 

Morgan uttered the first word of command in a deep, clear voice, 
and the arms were raised at the same time. 

‘‘One! two! three!” he cried, without leaving more than a 
second’s interval between each word. 

The two pistols were fired so exactly together that only one re- 
port was heard. 

M. de Pontaumur immediately lowered his weapon. He was evi- 
dently untouched; but Saulieu let his fall, and quickly raised his 
left hand to his breast. He remained standing, however, and Courte- 
nay arrived in time to receive him in his arms. 


16 


• THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


You are tvoundedi” he exclaimed in a hoarse voice. 

“Yes, there, under the arm,” said Maurice, with a shudder. 

“ It’s nothing,” cried the doctor, running up. “ Carry him, 
Courtenay, to the jrrass over there; lean upon me, my dear Saulieu.” 

They, with difficulty, dragged him about ten steps, and laid him 
down upon the grass. The wound could not be seen, but his face 
was livid and his eyes closed. 

“ Help me to loosen his coat,” said Coulanges, in a low tone. 

His hand trembled, and, in his hurry, he had dropped his case of 
instruments. 

“ Do you sufier?” asked George, anxiously. 

“ No, very little,” gasped the wounded man, “ but 1 am suffo- 
cating.” 

The doctor had unbuttoned his coat and vest; a thin line of blood 
stained the shirt, which he quickly tore open. A scarcely visible 
wound appeared, two inches below the collar-bone. 

“ Well?” said George. 

Coulanges responded by a shake of the head, which foreboded no 
good. 

M. de Pontaumur had joined his seconds, as is the custom in such 
cases. It ‘was proper, however, that they should inquire as to the 
condition of the adversary whom a too-well directed ball had 
touched. 

M. Corleon and the captain went first. Pontaumur followed be- 
hind; it was plain to be seen from his face that he did not care to 
approach too near, for fear of finding himself face to face with a 
corpse. 

“ The wound is not serious, 1 hope?” said Corleon, with a con- 
strained air. 

And Die doctor, making a gesture, which signified it is mortal, he 
threw up his hands. 

“Oh! my God! what a misfortune! You will do us this justice, 
gentlemen, that we did all that was possible to stop this duel, and 
that everything was done in an honorable manner.” 

“ Go to the devil!” cried Courtenay, shaking his fist at him. 

“ We want nothing of your jeremiads and protestations.” 

And as M. Corleon hastened to beat a retreat, Courtenay called 
Morgan, and said in another tone; 

“ Take away your friends, captain; take them away quickly, and 
at the first inn yon come to below there, near the bridge, send us 
two men with a wheelbarrow and a mattress.” 

“Rely upon me, monsieur,” answered the officer, with the 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 17 

phlegm of an old soldier, who has seen many suchjcases. “ 1 will 
also give your coachman orders to advance.” 

Courtenay Rnelt down and raised the head of his friend, who had 
opened his eyes. 

“ Maurice,” he asked, ” do you know me? It is 1 George.” 

” You will go,” murmured Maurice, in a voice which was only 
a wliisper, ‘‘you will go — you promised.” 

” 1 piomise you again.” 

“Thanks, thanks! Lean over, George, nearer— -nearer still.” 

“ You hurt yourself. Do not speak, 1 implore.” 

” 1 must. I wish you to know’^ all. Marianne — ” 

” Weil, you will see her again. In two hours we shall be in 
Paris; she will come.” 

“ No; 1 shall never see her again. But at least, you shall know 
the secret which 1 did not dare to confide to you, and she tor whom 
1 die will be saved.” 

“ Yes; for you will live, and she loves you.” 

“No; it is you whom she loves,” said Maurice, so low that 
George alone heard this strange avowal. 

“ What do you say?” c;ied George, in amazement. 

Maurice did not reply. These last words had cost him his lifa. 
His head fell back, his eyes closed, and George saw the shadow of 
death steal like a veil over his young face. 

“ It is over,” murmured Coulanges, letting fall the hand which 
,he held. “ The pulse has stopped. Tiie heart no longer beats.” 

“But, good heavens! you have let him die. You have done 
nothing to save him!” cried George, with a movement of anger. 

“ Tiiere was nothing to do, 1 assure you. The ball penetrated 
the upper lobe of the right lung, not very deeply perhaps, for it 
passed through two or three garments, but it cut an artery and in- 
ternal hemorrhage was produced. 1 had not a moment of hope 
after examining the wound. 1 am even astonished that the poor 
fellow could live as long as lie did, and speak so much.” 

“ ISpeak? No; he was not conscious of what he was saying; he 
was delirious.” 

“ You are mistaken. He suffered horribly, but he died in full 
possession of his faculties. I, who ought to be accustomed to such 
spectacles, am completely upset.” 

“ That is very apparent,” said Courtenay. “ You talk medicine 
instead of acting. Go and see it Jean is coming with the carriage, 
since your science is powerless.” 

“ The carriage? Y"ou don’t dream, 1 hope, of using it to trans- 


18 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


port the body to Paris. We should be arrested on the way. Still, 
it it were a closed carriage— But we have not even anything with 
which to cover the face of our unfortunate friend.” 

“ My coachman will give us the covers of the horses; and, be- 
sides, didn’t you hear me ask the captain to send us some men with 
a mattress?” 

” Morgan? He is worth no more than the other two, and if you 
count upon him to help us — ” 

“The service which 1 asked of him ie one which can not be re- 
fused, even to an enemy, and this rough soldier is not my enemy, 
although 1 do not fancy him at all.” 

“ He is the friend of Pontaumur and that other fool.” 

“ Corleon? AJiI the wretch! Just now, when he approached to 
ask me in such a sugary way if Saulieu were seriously hurt, 1 could 
have grabbed him by the throat and strangled him.” 

“ 1 should have infinite pleasure in crossing sw^ords with him, if 
1 could find the opportunity; but he is not worth bothermg our- 
selves about, it is upon the murderer that Maurice Saulieu ’s death 
must be avenged.” 

“Oh! 1 have more than one account to regulate with him. I in- 
tend to make him pay dear for that pistol-shot, and the rest,” added 
George, between his teeth. 

“Yes; I hope that the matter will not rest here, and that one of 
us will give him the lesson he deserves The devil of it is, that few 
of the members of the club will take, part against him,” 

“Why? Everybody detests him.” 

“ Granted. But he was publicly struck; he was in the right, and 
1 fear that no one will pity our friend who was the aggressor.” 

Courtenay started to protest that the first wrong came from Pon- 
taumur, but he remembered in time that the secret was not his, and 
he contented himself with a threatening gesture. 

Courtenay had risen after seeing Saulieu expire in his arms. His 
heart failed him to sustain that dead body already disfigured by 
death. But he could not take his eyes oft it. It seemed to him 
that the mouth was going to speak, the hand he extended to grasp 
his own. And he was seeking the solution of the enigmaticai 
words: “It is you whom she loves,” which Maurice’s white lips 
had uttered. 

“ Marianne Mezenc,” he thought, striding up and down, “ whom 
1 scarcely know — she loves me? No, it is impossible! Maurice 
was delirious, whatever the doctor may declare; he did not know 
what he was saying; and yet he used his last strength to speak to 


THE COKSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


19 


me and confide to me this secret. That was his expression, and that 
was his last thought— a secret. Ah! yes, and a very impenetrable 
one; for I should never have suspected that there existed bclween 
me and this young girl any mysterious bond, and even now 1 do 
not believe it yet; she adored Saulieu, she was going to marry 
him, and 1 only saw her rarely in society, where her minx of 
an aunt took her. How under the sun could she have fallen in 
love with me? It is certainly not my fault it she has. She 
was Maurice’s fiancee, it was as if she had been my sister, and 1 
never even told her that 1 thought her pretty.” 

While George was indulging in these incoherent thoughts, the 
doctor, a little piqued by the reproaches which his comrade had 
addressed to him, applied his ear to Saulieu’s breast to make sure 
that he was indeed dead, and he acquired the sad certainty that the 
heart had ceased to beat. The blood no longer fiowed from the 
small hole made by M. de Pontaumur’s bullet, and the body was 
already cold. 

“Ah! this dueling with pistols!” he muttered between his teeth, 
“ It ought to be forbidden! A thrust from a sword can be parried, 
and when it is received, it is not absolutely fatal, while these infernal 
leaden balls perforate a vital organ as easily as they would cut 
through a sheet of i)aper. 1 would bet, now, that this one lodged 
quite near the spine, despite the coat, vest and shirt; at such a dis- 
tance it is unheard-of, for George’s twenty paces are equal to thirty. 
Ah! that was good powder that Monsieur Corleon weighed with so 
much care, and if poor Saulieu had aimed better Poctaumur would 
not have returned to Paris on his feet. Bah! what is the use of 
practicing? In the shooting gallery Saulieu would put twenty balls 
into the target one after the other, and on the dueling ground he 
misses a man with the height and shoulders of a grenadier; he was 
not nervous, though, his hand did not tremble, but he must have 
fired hurriedly— that Morgan spoke so quickly.” 

“ What shall we do?” asked George. “ Shalk we wait here the 
arrival of the men? 1 wonder it we had not better go and find 
them ourselves. The bridge of Saint-Ouen is not far, and the car- 
riage would take us there and back in twenty minutes.” 

“ You are right. But it is not necessary for us both to go. We 
can not abandon the body of our friend; he is dead, alas! and my 
skill can not restore him, but we must not leave him at the mercy 
of any passer-by. Saulieu must have money upon him and pa- 
pers—” 


20 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

“Yes, 1 remember that he spoke tome of a pocket-book and 
asked me to take it out ot his pocket— the breast-pocket.” 

“ It seems to me that, in opening his coat, 1 felt something; and, 
between oui selves, he ought not to have retained that pocket- book, 
which might have saved him; it is forbidden by the code. Ah! 
Here it is,” said Coulanges, showing a large Russia leather pocket- 
book, which he had taken from the coat, 

“ Give it to me.” 

“Good Heavens! Look! It is torn; Monsieur de Pontaiimur’s 
bullet lias passed through it. It is marvelous; and 1 have heard 
stories of lives saved by a roll of manuscript ! This pocket-book is 
full of letters and photographs, but it did no good. Open it and see 
what havoc the ball has made.” 

“ I shall know soon enough, since Maurice req[uested me to.ex- 
amine the contents.” 

“ Wait! Here is a picture,” mied the doctor, picking up a photo- 
graph which had fallen to the ground, “ a photograph of a woman. 
See^ the ball has carried away a bit of paper, there from the breast, 
just over the heart. That is a sinister omen; she will die perhaps of 
grief when she learns that poor Maurice has been killed, and Mon- 
sieur de Pontaumur will be doubly a murderer.” 

George snatched the picture from the doctor’s hand and at a 
glance recognized the feature ot Mile. Mezenc, his friend’s betrothed. 
It w^as true. The likeness was pierced in the breast, almost in the 
same place as Saulieu, and this strange coincidence impressed George 
with a presentiment of misfortune. 

“ Only my heart remains to be pierced,” bethought. “ And who 
knows? This woman must be fatal to all those who love her or 
whom she loves. But I do not love her, 1 shall never love her, and 
1 doubt very much if she has any feeling for me; she has certainly 
never betrayed it.” 

“ Do you know, Courtenay,” said Coulanges, “ if everything in 
that pocket-book has been pierced through, you will find big hiat- 
uses. Our friend’s will is perhaps there, and a will to which a sig- 
nature is lacking would be worthless.” 

What matters his will?” exclaimed George, brusquely. “1 
do not expect to be his heir nor you either. He has relations, dis- 
tant ones, it is true; but at all events, his money will not find its 
way into the cofiers of the State, and 1 would gladly throw into the 
Seine this pocket-book, which is stained with Maurice’s blood.” 

“ You will not do that, 1 hope. You would be cheating some 
one.” 


THE C02S^SEQUE:^^CES OF A DUEL. 21 

** Some one,” repealed George gravely, “ Yes, a woman per- 
haps: a woman who has caused his death.” 

“ What’” cried Ihe doctor, ” the original of that picture? Was 
she the cause of this unfortunate duel?” 

“Idiil not say that,” replied Courtenay, angrily. “You are 
dreaming and 1 spoke at hazard. We are both losing our heads, 
and, in truth, there is some reason for it. Let us carry away the 
body of onr fiiend. 1 imagine at times that he hears us. My car- 
riage is above there, and the coachman is making signs that he 
sees somebody upon the road. Morgan has done his duty and the 
men are coming. What shall we do? 1 think with you that we 
can not return to Paris escorting a dead body.” 

“ Especially the body of a man killed in a duel. There are 
formalities to be fulfilled or we may get ourselves into a bad scrape; 
for instance, the police must be informed and the mayor of the 
commune, and a doctor’s certificate must be handed in, stating the 
cause of the death. If we should disappear without saying any- 
thing, we should expose ourselves to arrest j and 1 am by no means 
sure that we shall not be arrested, anyhow.” 

“ Bah! It is a long time since seconds have been sent up to the 
court of assizes, unless the duel was an unfair one.” 

” It is not so in this case. But remember, Courtenay, that a man 
has been killed, and that is so rare — ” 

“ Well, let them take the muiderer. 1 should not be sorry to see 
him condemned to a term of years in prison.” 

“ And 1 should be extremely vexed, for we would get six months 
and perhaps more, and that would not be cheerful.” 

“ What, we who saw our friend killed by that man! That would 
be absurd!” 

“ The law does not allow of any distinction between the seconds; 
it considers them as accomplices, whichever side they belong to. 
Saulieu fired at Pontaumur and did not hit him. You and 1 are 
accomplices of an attempt at murder.” 

‘‘We only did our duty, ana 1, for my part, shall know how to 
defend myself.” 

“ So shall 1, but, believe me, if this matter comes before a jury 
we shall be greatly blamed by the prosecuting attorney, while Cor- 
leon and Morgan will be Irearted with indulgence. Corleon espe- 
cially.” 

“ Why?” 

“ You forget that he made us propositions to arrange matters. 


22 


THE COJS^SEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


and you would not listen to anything of the sort. You even refused 
to inform our friend of the attempt at reconciliation.” 

“ It would have been quite useless, and they knew perfectly well 
that Maurice would not accept their conditions; and by demanding 
an apology which he could not make without dishonoring himself, 
they had no other end in view than to give an appearance of mod 
eration.” 

“ And to put you in the wrong. They succeeded, too. Be sure 
tliat Monsieur Corleon will not fail to tell every one, and especially 
the members of the club, that he made prodigious efforts to prevent 
the duel, and that you were intractable; he will paint you as a beast 
thirsting lor gore, and declare that, in reality, it was you who killed 
Saulieu.” 

” If he says that, he will have K) answer me for his words.” 

” Another duel! that would be worse still, you would be consid 
ered a seeker of quarrels, a bully.” 

Doctor, are you trying to drive me wild with your predictions?” 
exclaimed Courtenay, in exasperation. ” 1 have quite enough trouble 
and worry without your nonsense. Let them accuse me, arrest me, 
send me to the galleys, if they like; just now 1 can only think of 
the present situation. To end M more quickly, 1 am going with 
Jean to meet the men and bring them here in the carriage; we will 
aid them to raise Maurice and will accompany tnem to the nearest 
bouse, where we will leave the body. Then, you can take the car- 
riage and make the proper declaration to the authorities; 1 shall take 
the first train to Paris, although 1 have nothing a reeabletodo there, 
1 can assure you; 1 promised poor Maurice to do something foi him, 
and to morrow 1 shall have sad duties to fulfill, the funeral to see to, 
the notary to advise, and — ” 

” That is true. Saulieu lived alone, and you were the only one 
he was intimate with; he has probably appointed you as his exe- 
cutor?” 

Heaven forbid! Besides, he has some relatives in the country.” 

“ Was he not to be married shortly? He never spoke to me of 
it, you know how uncommunicative he was, but rumor said that he 
was going to make a love-match with a girl without dowry.” 

Rumor! Rumor! it says many things which are not true, and 
now is no time to occupy ourselves with its foolish opinions. 1 am 
going.” 

” And 1 will wait for you here. One of us must remain. Lose 
no time.” 

"W hile talking, they had walked slowly along and had reached the 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


23 


place where the tour seconds had stood to witness the encounter, 
Ooulange*^ had left bis case of instruments there, and in the excite- 
ment of the fatal ending of the affair he had forgotten all about it. 

“It was indeed a tine thing to bring those things,*’ said Courte- 
nay, touching the case with his foot, as he left the doctor to his re- 
tied ions, which were not couUut de rose. 

This excellent doctor loved a quiet life, and he had a horror of 
unexpected complications. He held his own comfort above every- 
thing, and he must have thought a great deal of Maurice to have 
consented to be one of his seconds. He would certainly have re- 
fused, could he have foreseen the end of the matter. But duels 
with pistols are terminated nine times out of ten by a harmless ex- 
change of shots, the seconds declare that honor is satisfied, they 
bow, sometimes shake hands, and depart as they came. Powder 
has spoken, as the Arabs say, and that is enough. Tiie journals 
announce that M. de P. and M. S. bore themselves with bravery, 
and the friends who assisted them benefit in their turn from the 
notoriety of a day. 

Coulanges supposed that he would be quit with an excursion to 
the suburbs of Paris, and he brought his instruments only as a mat- 
ter of form ; and he had fallen upon a hopeless case, one of those 
frightful accidents which have terrible consequences. He remained 
with a-dead man on his hands, and the court of assizes in prospect, 
and he inveighed against Courtenay, who had had the unfortunate 
idea of requiring his services. 

“ And yet he seemed to be angry with me,” he thought. “ Just 
now he almost reproached me for not attempting an operation upon 
a man who should have fallen stiff the moment he received the shot. 
This will teach me not to put myself out to oblige friends, who 
wmuld not do so much for me. 1 liked Saulieu, and Courtenay is 
a good fellow, but there was no reason for me to mix myself up in 
their business. Saulieu was in the wrong, too, and Courtenay only 
blew the flames. It rested with him that the duel should not take 
place; but no, thanks to his folly, here am 1 in a ridiculous posi- 
tion, twenty-four hours at least of annoyance before me; 1 was 
going to dine this evening at the Cafe Anglais with some charming 
people, and I shall dine perhaps all alone in some tavern of Saint- 
Ouen or Gennevilliers, tor the authorities will not let me go this 
evening. Then what a life is before me, even if the seconds are not 
arrested and tried! The club will be divided into two camps, the 
one will defend Saulieu’s memory, the other will sustain Pontau 
mur. You won’t be able to sit down to a whist-table without being 


24 TiJl-: CO^SI<:QUEisCES OF A DUEL. 

exposed to a quarrel. Ah I 1 have prepared an agreeable existence 
tor myself.” 

Thus did Coulanges grumble as he put his case in his pocket; 
and yet Coulanges was not an e^j^oist in the bad sense of the word; 
he was a practical philosopher, a good-natured fellow, who thought 
of himself frst, but who also thought of others, and who would 
oblige them willingly if he could do so without troubling himself 
too much. He was kind-hearted by nature, and he liked to be sur- 
rounded with happy people, but he had his own idea of happiness, 
and he did not imagine that others had difterent ones. 

He saw Courtenay drive away in the carriage, and, while waiting 
for him to return, he paced up and down, gradually drawing fur- 
ther and further away from the place where the body lay. 

The ground was even, and the dryness of an exceptional winter 
had hardened the soil and blighted the straggling grass which grew 
in this abandoned corner of a fertile plain. 

” Here is a battle field which has not preservd the least trace of 
the combat,” thought Coulanges. ” 1 am exactly in the line of 
fire. Pontdumur was there, quite near, on the left, and Saulieu 
below there on the right. A short time ago this would not have 
been a good place to be stationed. Bullets do not get out of the way 
for any imprudent person in their path. Pontaumur’s, alas, went 
straight to its goal. What has become of poor Maurice’s. It must 
have been lost in the plain; he fired too high. But no,” he suddenly 
exclaimed, stooping down to examine morecflosely an object he had 
perceived at his feet, ” he fired, on the contrary, too low, for here it 
isi. Yes, it is indeed a bullet; it is visible enough, for it has not 
penetrated the ground. That is cxtiaordinary ; 1 should have 
thought at this distance the ground is harder than a man’s skin, 
but it has not the resistance of an iron plate, and besides, bullets are 
flattened against an impenetrable surface, and this one has preserved 
its round form. Kow, why the devil did it fall so softly, and why 
didn’t it go further? The powder was good; Saulieu was nearly 
shot through the body; and he aimed well, for, although hi« ball 
did not reach the target, it did not deviate from the straight line. 1 
should like to know’ the cause of this phenomenon, for 1 do not 
understand it.” 

The doctor remained for some time in contemplation of the bullet, 
but did not think of picking up the object which preoccupied him^ 
He looked about him, as if an inspect] tm of the ground would fur- 
nish him with an explanation. “By Jove! What a fool J am!” 
he cried, striking his forehead. “ Where was my mind? This ball 


25 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 

did not come from Saulieu’s pistol, for the very good reason that it 
never entered it. Corleon let it fall when he was loading the 
weapon. He was so nervous that he did not know what he was 
doing, and he may have hadly rammed in the one lie put in the pis- 
tol. This would explain why our friend did not touch his ad- 
versary; such a little thing may suffice to make a morsel of lead 
deviate from its course. Ah! the monk of the Middle Ages who 
invented powder may flatter himself with having made a tine dis- 
covery! formerly, at all events, it was only used in war; the knights 
who had a quarrel settled it with lance or rapier, with anything ex- 
cept the pistol — they commenced lo use that villainous weapon only 
under Louis Xlll., and then they fought on horseback and wore a 
breastplate — ” 

Coulanges was at this point of his invective against modern cus- 
toms when he perceived behind a tuft of dry grass a wooden box. 

“ Ah!” he said to himself, ” Corleon has forgotten the pistol case, 
and, indeed, 1 don’t see why he should have taken it away, for it is 
mine; 1 paid tor it out of my own pocket. Damnation! it was a 
fine way to lay out money! And to think that 1 had at home a 
superb pair ot swords and these gentlemen would not have them! 
1 have a great mind to bury these cursed pistols, but no, 1 will keep 
them, to make me remember all my life that 1 had the weakness to 
assist a friend who had accepted such absurd conditions, and it will 
stop my ever doing such a thing again. But are they in the bux? 
Saulieu dropped his at the place he was hit, but Pontaumur must 
have given his to one ot his seconds.” 

Coulanges picked up the box, opened it, and was a little surprised 
to see that the two pistols were inside. They had been returned to 
their sockets of green clotb, and were even arranged with so much 
care that one would have thought they had never been taken out. 

“Those seconds kept their heads,” muttered the doctor, who 
was a born reasoner. “ One ot them took the trouble to go and 
pick up the weapon Saulieu let fall; 1 did not observe him, but I 
had something else to think of. Well, a man must be singularly 
organized to think of collecting the weapons at the moment a man 
has been mortally wounded; he might as well have cleaned them 
while he was about it. 1 am not quite so calm as all that, and when 
1 think that one of these implements has killed a charming fellow 
whom 1 saw every day, when 1 think that it was 1 who loaded it, it 
seems to me that 1 should never dare to touch it, I should not be 
sorry, though, to know which one it was; 1 would place a mark 
upon it to recognize it, and 1 should only have to look at it once in 


26 THE CONSEQUENCES -OF A DUEL. 

a while to keep myself in a state of holy horror against the duel at 
twenty paces.” 

Impelled by this praiseworthy indignation, and a little, too, by 
curiosity, Coulanges took the pistols one after the other out of the 
box, and began to examine them, not without some repugnance. 
They were absolutely alike and the muzzle of each was blackened 
with powder. The only peculiarity he noticed was that one of them 
was, perhaps, a trifle more greasy than the other, but this was ol 
really no importance. He replaced them, closed the box, and aim- 
lessly retraced his steps. 

It happened that he again perceived the fallen bullet and this time 
he stooped down to pick it up; but, when he took it between his 
lingers, he suddenly started and exclaimed: 

“My God! it weighs nothing. It certainly is not lead. What 
doss this mean?” 

On examining it more closely, he found that it was made of wood^ 
perfectly round and covered with a thin layer of that metallic paper 
wdiich is used to wrap about boiibons and which has the color and 
brightness of new lead. It had been fashioned so skillfully, that, 
from its appearacance alone, it would have deceived any one. It 
was only from its weight that the difference between it and a real 
bullet could be perceived. 

“ What a singular plaything!” muttered the doctor between his 
teeth; “ who has left it here and what was it used for? It has soiled 
my fingers, too, and — ” 

He raised it to his nose and recognized the smell of powder. 
Then, lie began to understand. 

“Ah! the wretches!” he cried; “the cowards! They have as- 
sassinated Haulieu. Yes, this false ball was in his pistol, while Pon- 
taumur fired at him with a real one. That is why Corleon wished 
to load himself! How did he do it? 1 was there, and the ball which 
-T-selected was certainly not of wood, 1 am sure of it. He must have 
substituted another which he held concealed in his hand. Why not? 
It is said that he cheats at cards, and one evening when they were 
throwing dice at the club, a loaded dice was found under the table 
which he was suspected of having used. When he held the box, 
he substituted it for a good one; and he has repeated that game 
here. It was not difldcult; 1 was not watching him. 1 did not im 
agine that 1 had to do with a scoundrel; but 1 know it now. 1 will 
denounce him, and if he is not condemned to death, it will not be 
my fault; yes, to death, and Pontaumur too, and Morgan too, for 
those rascals are his accomplices!” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


Here, Coulanges interrupted his monologue. He was easily ehk 
cited, but reason quickly returned to him. He commenced td 
think: 5 

“ His accomplices? ] am not very sure of that; 1 am even in- 
clined to think the contrary of the captain; an old officer does not 
connect himself with a brigand. As for Pontaumur, that is another 
thing; the crime has profited him, but nothing in his past justifies 
an imputation of this nature. Besides, how could 1 prove it? Or 
even prove that infamous Corleon did anything out of the way? It 
would be no use for me to show the bullet; no one would believe 
that it came from ISaulieu’s pistol and that Corleon prepared it. Ko 
one saw me pick it up. It Courtenay had been here when 1 did 
so, it would have made two to declare that fact; but that would 
not be sufficient; they would laugh in our faces, and we should 
be considered slanderers. And then, how to proceed? File an ac- 
cusation? In that case, we should be sure to be brought before the 
court of assizes as seconds. No! no! 1 do not want that sort of sat- 
istaction. 1 like my tranquillit}' too well to embark in a criuiinal 
trial; and Courtenay would certainly make a row, if 1 should show 
him what 1 have found. The devil ! . 1 had better keep it to my- 
self. Why not, after all? If 1 should act now, 1 should risk mak- 
ing a mistake, for 1 am not sure that Pontaumur is guilty. Isn’t it 
wiser to wait and observe the way these men behave? I can hope 
that they will end by betraying themselves, and, by keeping the 
bail, I shall always be armed against them.” 

Upon this conclusion, Coulanges put the accusing b&ll in the 
pocket of his vest; but not, however, wiihout asking himself it he 
had the right, conscientiously, to conceal the matter. It cost him 
something to acknowledge to himself that his petty sin, the exagger- 
ated love of repose, had much to do with the prudent resolution he 
had taken, but he succeeded without much difficulty in persuading 
himself that, ” W^hen in doubt, keep still,” was the most sensible of 
all proverbs. It must be said, also, in his excuse, that certain par- 
ticulars of the preparations for the duel seemed to contradict tha 
supposition of a premeditated assassination. For instance, Corleon 
had proposed to draw the pistols by lot from under a handkerchief. 
If this system had been adopted, Pontaumur would have been ex- 
posed to choosing the inoffensive weapon and the roles might have 
been reversed. 

Coulanges congratulated himself on thinking of this, and yet a 
solution soon presented itself to his mind; one of the pistols might 
bear a trifling mark, but recognizable to the touch. Then, M, de 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

jntaumur could have chosen with certainty, and in that case, 
here could be no doubt of his complicity; for, in order to profit by 
the mark, it must have been pointed out to him beforehand. The 
doctor was about to open the box to inspect the weapons with more 
care than the first time, when he saw George Courtenay coming to- 
ward him, followed b}^ two men bearing a litter. He decided for 
the present to keep silent as to the discovery he had made, and he 
consequently put oft his examination till a more favorable moment. 

“ All is arranged,” said George. “ These good people will receive 
the body of our poor friend. 'Vou will remain to be present at the 
inquest, and 1 shall return to Paris. You need not complain of 
your task, 1 have a much harder one to fulfill and one there is na 
escape from. Maurice made me promise to accomplish it this even- 
ing.” 


CHAPTER 11. 

When George Courtenay alighted from the railway carriage in 
Paris, he was in a very bad humor. The talk with the people at the 
inn of Saint-Ouen had been prolonged beyond measure. He had 
been obliged to explain matters to the lieutenant of police, sign a 
preliminary report, give his name and address and promise to pre- 
sent* himself before the local authorities whenever his presence 
should be required. It had been useless to say that Doctor Cou- 
langes would remain to answer. He had been forced to lose three 
quarters of an hour, and, to complete his misfortunes, he had lost 
the train at Asnj^res. 

These accumulated annoyances had so irritated him, that he felt 
less keenly the sorrow of having seen his best friend die in his arms. 

Man is so constituted that the pricks of a pin make him forget 
momentarily great sorrows. 

And George, when he reached Pairis, was not at the end of his 
minor troubles. Everything fell upon him: the duty of informing 
Maurice Baulieu’s relations, the preparations for the funeral and a 
hundred other details which follow death, especially when death 
comes suddenly. And it is much worse when the victim has led 
the isolated existence of a bachelor, who has been an orphan from 
infancy. 

This was precisely Maurice Saulieu’s case. His mother died 
when he was born, and he wms not twelve years old \vhen he lost his 
lather an old soldier, who had not growm rich in the service, and 
who dreamed of making a soldier of his son. His mother had a 


THE CON’SEQUE^^CES OF A DUEL. 

little fortune sometliing like a hundred thousand francs, and thk 
small capital, wisely administered by Commandant Saulieu, and 
after bim by an honest guardian, assured independence to Maurice 
and enabled him to live without following what is called a career. 
And Maurice had done so, to the great regret of his only surviving 
near relative, a brother of his mother’s, an old merchant who had 
made a snug little fortune in trade. This uncle, while disapproving 
of idleness, had not ceased to love his nephew, and had left him, 
when he died, all his propert}'. 

Maurice had lived alone, therefore, from the time he left college, 
for he bad remained in Paris, and his uncle lived in the country. 
They saw each other once a year when the nephew went to hunt 
in Burgundy. And Maurice had no other f liend than George Cour- 
tena}^ his college classmate, whom he saw constantly, although they 
did not live at all the same sort of life. 

Coulanges was only a club acquaintance, and. a very recent one, 
for it was only the year before that Saulieu had been received into 
the “ Moucherons,” the nickname given to the club of which the 
doctor and Courtenay were members. 

Coulanges had, therefore, done more than his duty in acting as 
Saulieu’ s second and in remaining at the inn where the body had 
been temporarily placed. 

The other duties devolved upon George, who, moreover, had no 
idea of not fulfilling them. 

The rq^st painful was assuredly the one which consisted in keep- 
ing the promise given to his dying friend. 

To announce to a young girl that her fiance has been killed in a 
duel is always a sad and difficult task; but this task, which he had 
unwillingly accepted, troubled him very much since the strange 
confession which Maurice had made to him before expiring. 

Courtenay had met quite often in society Mile. Mezenc, but he 
had never shown her any attention, not that he did not like her, for 
he thought her charming, as indeed she was. He did not keep away 
from her, because she had no other fortune than her beauty, wit, 
and distinction; nor because she w^as reserved toward him almost 
to coldness. He was rich, a dowry he cared nothing for, and diffi- 
cult enterprises tempted him. But Maurice ardendy loved Mile. 
Mezenc, and had asked her band in marriage. This was enough 
for George to treat her as if she were already Mine. Saulieu. 

This situation had come to an end, since her fiance was dead; 
but George never dreamed of availing himself of Maurice’s dec- 
laration to become a suitor for Mile. Mezenc’s hand. He did 


THE CONSEQUElSrCES OF A DUEL. 

jot even believe that declaration made by a wounded man who 
was in no condition to express clearly- what he thought. George 
supposed that Maurice, when he said: “ She loves you,” did not 
mean to give to these words the meaning which is generally attrib- 
uted to them when one speaks of a woman and to a man. Rut they 
still rang in his ears, and they troubled him, although he deter- 
mined not to take them in earnest. 

He saw that the memory of these unexpected farewell words 
would take away the calmness he had need of to announce the 
frightful news; and for nothing in the world would he have wished 
the young girl to divine the singular embarrassment he felt. 

And he could not forget also that Mile. Mezenc was the cause of 
the terrible duel; it was for her that Maurice^ad fallen, struck by 
M. de Pontaumur’s bullet. If she had not committed the impru- 
dence of complaining of this man, Maurice would not have struck 
him. Did she deserve that Maurice should give her his last thought, 
his fortune, perhaps, and that he should recommend her to his best, 
his only friend? For it was a recommendation, almost a prayer, 
this last confidence. 

It was as if he had bequeathed his betrothed to George, and George 
did not feel disposed to accept the legacy. The idea of succeeding 
Maurice filled him with a sort of horror. 

He resolved to make no allusion before Mile. Mezenc to the words 
of the man who had sacrificed his life for her. But could he also 
be silent as to the true cause of the encounter? Could he feign to 
believe that Maurice had iought for a speech which was scarcely 
offensive, when, on the contrary, he had had the courage to give 
himself the appearance of being the aggressor, in older that no one 
should know the words which she herself had repeated to him with- 
out foreseeing that Maurice would think himself obliged to avenge 
her? 

After having asked himself twenty limes, without obtaining any 
answer, these and kindred questions, he resolved to be guided by cir- 
cumstances, and not to broach delicate subjects, unless he should 
be forced to by her attitude or language. 

The bard experience would soon be over, moreover; and he would 
have gone immediately to Mile. Mezenc's house, if he had not 
thought that it would be well to first examine the papers left by 
Saulieu. 

This examination could not take long, but he did not like to make 
it in a railway-carriage, wdiere there were other travelers with him. 
The pocket-book stained with blood, and pierced by the murderous 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL 


V 

ball, was in his pocket; but he would have thought that he w a.- 
committing a sacrilege, if he had opened it before the eyes of stran* 
gers. 

Besides, Mile. Mazenc lived in the Rue Blanche, with her moth' 
ei, and Courtenay, who resided in the Rue de Milan, could, with- 
out much delay, enter his own house for an instant, before going 
to hers. 

The hotel he occupied was not large, but it belonged to him, and 
he kept up a certain style: three horses, two carriages, a coachman, 
a groom, a valet, a cook, and a chamber-maid. In these times, this 
was scarcely the establishment of a man who enjoyed an income or 
one hundred thousand francs, as Courtenay did. 

On leaving the station, he jumped into the first cab that presented 
itself, and drove first to his own door. 

The valet and chamber-maid were talking in the court, and, from 
their faces, George saw at once that they knew where he had been. 
The preparations for a duel can not be Hidden from servants, and 
the coachman, ordered to be ready at noon with Ihe barouche, had 
told the others who, moreover, had remarked the repeated calls of 
two gentlemen who liad never been seen before at the house with- 
out counting those of M.. Saulieu and Dr. Coulanges. 

Courtenay was not disposed to inform his people of what had 
occurred in the plain of Gennevilliers, and they, of course, did 
not dare to question him. 

“Are there any letters for me?“ he asked. 

The idea had struck him that perhaps Mile. Mezenc had writ- 
ten to him. She must have known that the meeting was to take 
place about three o’clock, and she might have thought of asking 
news from Maurice Saulieu’s intimate friend. 

“No, monsieur, there have been none since this morning,” an- 
swered the valet. 

“ Very well, i am at home to no one, and am going out again 
immediately. 1 am going to the smoking-room. Prepare my 
dressing-room; 1 shall be there in five minutes.” 

He did not think of dressing for his painful visit, as one dresses 
for dinner, but it seemed to him improper to present himself before 
Maurice’s fiancee in the same garments he had worn on the duel- 
ground. 

“ Madame Brehal stopped in her carriage on her way back from 
the Bois,” said the valet. 

“ When was that?” 

“ About an hour ago. She asked if monsieur had returned, and 


THE COKSKQUENCILS OF A DUEL, 
jld me (o say to monsieur that she would be at home this even* 

“ This evening? But this is not her day,” murmured George. 

He had his reasons for being astonished at a circumstance which 
ordinarily would have appeared natural enough. 

Mine. Brehal, who had driven out of her way expressly to invite 
George Courtenay to come and see her was not his -fiancee, but she 
held a place in his life, a great place even, for two days never went 
by without his seeing her. 

Now, the evening before, seeing that the preliminaries and per- 
haps the consequences of Maurice’s duel, would absorb all his time, 
George had written to Mme. Brehal that unexpected business would 
take him away from Paris till the end of the week. The meeting 
had to be kept secret as much as possible, and he had, therefore, 
been obliged to invent an excuse to explain his absence to a person 
who expected his daily visit between five and six without speaking 
of her Wednesday teas, at which be was almost always present. 

And he guessed now that the excuse had not deceived the 
lady, since she had stopped, on her way from the Bois, at the hotel 
in the Hue de Milan; it she had thought that George was out of 
town, she would not have taken Ihe trouble to do so, nor would she 
have (old the valet that she should expect M. Courtenay that evening. 

She knows what has occurred, and she wishes to speak to me 
about it,” thought George, throwing his hat and coat to his valet. 

How can she have been ^o well informed? It is true that the 
whole club knew of the blow, and Madame Brehal sees a good 
many people. She even received Pontaumur sometimes. Could 
he have told her? No, that is impossible; a man does not boast of 
having been struck. Never mind! 1 shall tell hei what 1 think of 
that gentleman, and advise her not to receive him. 1 will go to see 
ber this evening, since she has asked me, and 1 shall be very glad 
to do so, for 1 always feel at ease with her; but now 1 must make a 
much less pleasant call, and there is very little time left to pre- 
pare for it.” 

He did not wish to present himself at Mile. Mezenc’s before 
opening Maurice’s pocket-book, tor it might contain wiitten in- 
structions. ^ 

In the redoubt, as he was going to his post, Maurice had ex- 
pressly reqested his friend to look over the papers in this pocket- 
book. He had said simply, papers; but it was natural to sup- 
pose that, among these papers, would be found a will, and 
George was convinced that this will would constitute Marianne 


I 

, ^ THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 3ly 

I Mezenc universal legatee. And this, moreover, he considered per* 

I fectly proper 

! Maurice had only distant relatives, 'who lived in comfortable cir- 
cumstances in the provinces. Marianne, without being absolutely 
I poor, was not rich. By wedding M. tSaulieu, she would have made 
i an unlooked-for marriage. No one could see anything wroiig in it, 
j or even be astonished, if he left her his fortune, to console her for 
I the loss of fiance, who was to have taken her from the dullness 
in which she vegetated, between a sick mother and an aunt by alli- 
j ance, who had constituted herself her protectress and who made 
her pay dear enough for the protection. 

“ If he has left his fortune to the girl he loved, he was a hundred 
I times right,” thought Courtenay, ” and my mission will be a little 
less painful to fulfill, if 1 can at the same time tell her that she has 
inherited a foitune. And yet, it seems to me that she would feel 
j some repugnance to accept it, for after all she will owe it to the 
murderer of her lover, that Pontaumur, whom 1 encounter every- 
where. What would she do if she should meet him? And she 
will meet him, for he is received at Madame Fresnay’s, who is her 
chaperon; it was very probably there that he made the remarks 
which Maurice heard of, to nis sorrow. Well,” concluded Courte- 
f nay, ” that is her afiair. She is very intelligent and very coura- 
geous. She will know what to do. All that 1 ask is that Saulieu has 
not chosen me as his executor, for that wouldn’t suit me at all.” 

While he was thinking thus, he took the pocket-book out of his 
pocket, and as he gazed at it, the tears came into his eyes. 

The hole was as clearly defined as if the Russia leather had been 
cut with a punch, and it seemed to him as if he still saw the wound 
made in his friend’s breast by the homicidal bullet. 

‘‘ Come! come!” he murmured, “ no weakness! 1 must proceed 
and examine these blood-stained papers.’* 

He opened the pocket-book, which was fastened by a steel clasp 
and divided inside into several compartments. In the middle was 
a little memorandum book and a pencil. 

Courtenay saw again the pierced photograph ana took it up to look 
at it. It was an admirably finished picture and the resemblance 
was striking. The face was lovely enough to have tempted a 
painter. 

“ She is like one of Raphael’s Virgins,” thought Courtenay. 

It is exactly like her; it seems as if the mouth was going to 
speak. And the eyes — no, the eyes are not so good, something is 

lacking, 1 don’t know what; or, rather, 1 do know — they have not 
2 


ji THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

that sparkle which is the characteristic mark of ^Marianne's beauty^ 
but it would be impossible to get that in a picture. The rest is 
perfect; the ball only touched the breast; and after all, if the eyes 
are calm, the day Mademoiselle Mezenc sat, she was very happ}^ 
The date is here, December 23, 1883, and her name below, written 
in her own hand. The writing is characteristic, fine and bold,, 
elegant and firm. 1 remember that twenty-thira of December; 
Maurice was to go with me the next day to Madame Brehal's, and 
he came in the morning to excuse himself and to tell me that he 
was engaged to be married; he wanted to be alone to dream of his 
happiness, and 1 did not see him for four days. Poor fellow! He 
little thought that, three months afterward, nothing would remain 
of this deep love buta memor}^ and that Marianne would be a widow 
before being a wife. "What will she do with this picture^ Will she 
keep it, or will it inspire her with fear by constantly recalling the 
horrible catastrophe which has ruined her life? She will burn it^ 
perhaps; burn it to forget, for at her age one forgets — it is nature. 
If I dared 1 would keep this card which the bullet passed through, 
before killing Saulieu. No, 1 have no right; and then, what would 
Mademoiselle Mezenc think, if she should even learn that I had 
confiscated it? She might think — The devil! 1 must return it to 
her." 

And, to see it no longer, Courtenay replaced the photograph in 
the pocket-book. 

The valet had gone to prepare the dressing-room, and his master, 
left alone in the large vestibule of the hotel, had no need to go to 
the smoking-room to finish examicing his friend’s papers. 

The first he unfolded was a carefully drawn up list of the amounts 
Saulieu owed his tradespeople. Ke must have written it the 
night before the duel, for quite recent purchases appeared, wdth the 
dale. The list bore also the amount of money in his desk and the 
amount to his credit at his banker’s. 

Saulieu had evidently taken his pr’ecautions in view of tbe tr-ans- 
mission of his property to some one mentioned in another paper. 

** The will is prebably in this," said George, taking out an en- * 
velope. 

It was addressed to him and firmly sealed. To tell the truth, it 
had more the appearance of a letter, and it was not surprising that 
Maurice had written some words of farewell to his dearest friend, 
in case there should be an accident. Here, too, the ball had made a 
hole in the very middle of the envelope. 

" Humph!" ejaculated Courtenay, " the fears which the doctor 


/ 


THE COis^SEQUENCES OF A DUEL, 


expressed are beginning to attack me. Heaven grant that the will 
is not in this envelope, for the brutal bullet may well have cle-' 
stroyed the signature, and then what would become of Maurice’s 
last wishes?” 

He hastened to break the seal, and, when he unfolded the paper, 
be saw at the first glance that the writing ended with this sentence; 
” Be happy and think sometimes of the one who cared so much for 
you.” 

Courtenay drew a long breath: it was only a letter and he has- 
tened to read it. 

It commenced as follows; 

” My Friend. — 1 do not wish to impose upon you the task of at- 
tending to my attairs when 1 shall be no more. 1 only ask you to 
take to my notary my will, which is perfectly regular and which is 
the expression of my last wishes. You will find it in the — ” 

The end of the sentence was missing. The ball had carried it 
away. 

“ The devil!” murmured George, ” this is almost the same as if 
the ball had carried away Maurice Saulieu’s signature to his will. 
He has written: ‘ ITou will find it in the — ’ and the rest is gone. 
]n the what? In the house? In the room? In the box? There 
are a hundred places he might have put it. He has not deposited 
it with his notary, since he asks me to take it to him. Where can 
he have put it? That is a question which 1 am not yet in a position 
to solve. Let us see if the rest of the letter will help me any.” 

Before continuing, he examined carefully the part toi^ away and 
saw that the end of the missing sentence could not be Ic^g. half a 
line at the most. The next sentence was the beginning of a para- 
graph. In this also some words were lacking, but without render- 
ing the meaning absolutely unintelligible; 

” The will which I have to you, without I made yester- 

day, after mature reflection, and although one of the disp— may 
appear strange to you, 1 am almost cer — you will approve it. and 1 
beg 3 mu to instantly make yourself acq — with it, belore ” 

“That does not clear up matters much,” thought Courtenay. 

‘ The will which 1 have ’ that seems to be, which 1 have confided 

to you, and Maurice has oonhded nothing to me, except, al the last 
moment, the secret of the duel. ‘ Without ’ — 1 don’t understand that 
at all. ‘One of the disp — ,’ dispositions, that is evident. It may 
appear strange to me, 1 admit that; I shall approve it, possibly; but 
I am no better informed. 1 don’t know what the disposition is. 1 


6G THE COHSEQUEHCES OE A DUEL. 

should not be surprised if it concerned Mademoiselle Marianne. 
The poor fellow thought of nothing but his sweetheart. And the 
rest is no less obscure. * To make yourself acquainted with it be- 
fore ’—before taking it to the notary? Ko; 1 certainly should not 
go to ask him about it afterward. Besides, it is easy to see that 
there are more than six words missing. What are they? It would 
need a magician to find out. The savants who restored the text of 
Tacitus would be at their wits’ end here, ]Mow, the rest? The rest 
consists of a very short paragraph, which does not throw the least 
light on the meaning of the two preceding ones. Maurice asks my 
pardon for the trouble and embarrassment he is going to cause me; 
he invokes as an excuse the memory of our long and warm friend- 
ship, and wishes me happiness. Of Mademoiselle Mezenc, there is 
not a word; but that is no reason why she should not be mentioned 
in the will. And all these obscurities would be nothing if 1 knew 
where that will was; but I haven’t the slightest idea. Ah! Mon- 
sieur de Pontaumur may congratulate himself on having done all 
the evil he could. With one shot, he has killed my best friend and 
rendered it impossible for me to fulfill his last wishes. What shall 
1 do? What shall 1 say to Mademoiselle Mezenc? Shall 1 show her 
this letter? Ko, she could make no more of it than 1.” 

Greorge sadly replaced the letter in the envelope, and the envelope 
in the compartment where he had found it. There were no more 
papers. He opened the memorandum-book to see it there might 
be any explanation there, but there were only very cursory notes 
which told him nothing: dales marjj;ed with ^a cross, abbreviated 
words and initials, especially those of his fiancee. It was the note- 
book of a lover, who thinks only of his love, and who recalls, by 
signs of which he has the key, the memory of -interviews with his 
beloved. 

Upon one of the last pages, two lines, almost effaced, seemed to 
be clearer: 

“ To-day, March 27th, 1 have guessed the secret. 1 will have a 
decisive understanding — ” 

And a little below, with the date of March 29th : 

“ Courage has failed me. And then, w^hat would be the use? 1 
no longer doubt my unhappiness. 1 shall die of it. 1 must.” 

The hand which held the pencil had trembled in tracing the last 
words. 

What was the meaning of this inscription? What sentiment had 
impelled Maurice to write it in this place? Maurice was neither 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 


37 


excitable nor romaniic. Whatever he did, he did simply; and he 
doubtless felt no need ot a memc randum to murk one of those crises 
which upset a whole existence. Still less had he any Deed to excite 
himself to act against an enemy or a rival. Maurice was the most 
resolute of men, firm in his plans and brave as those people who 
make little bluster always are. 

And yet he had noted down his impressions, like a young girl 
who has just entered society and who continues to keep her journal 
begun at boarding-school. 

“How foolish of him,” thought George, “to write down his 
thoughts in this way. Still, if they were comprehensible, 1 should 
not regret having read them, for they would teach nie perhaps what 
to say to \i\^ fiancee and what attitude to assume toward her. But 
now 1 must trust to chance and proceed in the dark. What was this 
discovery made by Maurice the 27th of March? Where was he that 
day? 1 can not remember what 1 did myself. Did 1 see Maurice 
the 27th of March? Probably; we rarely went twent5^-f our hours 
without seeing one another; but it is certain that our interview on 
that date made no particular inopression upon me. And then,‘ the 
secret’? Whose secret? Not mine, certainly. 1 have no secrets. 
1 never had them, especially with Maurice. 1 have even told him 
that 1 was afraid 1 should fall in love with Madame Brehal. A 
man’s secret probably, since he intended to come to a decisive un- 
derstanding. 1 would rather decipher the hieroglyphics of an obe- 
lisk than puzzle my head over these incomplete sentences. What is 
very clear, however, is that my poor friend foresaw that he was 
going to die, and did not care to live. His ‘ unhappiness,’ that was 
evidently the certainty of not being loved. Ah! if 1 Had known!” 

This monologue was interrupted by the valet who came to inform 
his master that the dressing-room was ready for him. 

The interruption was a timely one, for Courtenay ha:l had enough 
of these papers which told him nothing and only troubled him at a 
moment when he needed all his coolness and clear-headedness for 
his interview with Mile. Mezenc. 

He closed the pocket-book, dismissed his valet and proceeded to 
change his clothes. He did not forget to take with him the photo- 
graph which Maurice had carried over his heart. 

There was nothing now to do but to arm himself with courage, 
and he departed with a determination to end as soon as possible a 
situation which weighed upon him. 

His carriage was waiting for him and he gave the driver the ad- 
dress, telling him to lose no time on the way. 


38 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


Mme. Mezenc and her daiifthter occupied a modest apartment on 
the third floor of a house in the upper part of the Rue Blanche. 

Courtenay had therefoie time to reflect, and as he did not wish to 
return to conjectures upon an exhausted subject, he naturally turned 
his thoughts to the two women he was going to see; to the two, for, 
tree as she was by the force ot circumstances. Mile. Marianne was 
not in the habit of receiving callers alone. Her mother, confined to 
her aim chair by paralysis of the limbs, was quite capable of con- 
versing, and, although she allowed Marianne much liberty, she held 
to the conventionalities. She had been a great society woman once, 
and she passed her days in her salon, dressed as if she daily ex- 
pected ceremonious calls, and she permitted those who presented 
themselves to see her daughter only after they had paid their re- 
spects to herself. According to circumstances and individuals. Mile. 
Mezenc came into the salon or awaited them in a room which was 
a sort of studio. She painted upon porcelain, carved wood, and 
even could use a lathe as well as a professional carpenter. 

Courtenay therefore expected to be received by Mme. Mezenc, and 
he was wondering how he could manage to ask permission to go to 
mademoiselle’s studio, when, as he came in sight of the house, he 
perceived a woman leaning out of a window on the third floor. 

“ That house is certainly the one where Madame Mezenc lives,” 
he said to himself. ‘‘-Yes, I recognize it by the balcony on the 
first floor. And the apartment which she occupies is on the third. 
It can not certainly be she who is at the window; she does not leave 
her chair. Can it be her daughter, and, if so, has she taken her 
position at the window to watch for me? The post would be w^ell 
chosen, tor it overlooks all the uppei part of the Hue Blanche, and 
as 1 live in the Rue de Milan, 1 should have to come that w^ay. Yes, 
but how could she know ot my visit? In case she does, she must 
already be informed of the result of the encounter, and that supposi- 
tion is absurd. Coulanges would never have sent her a dispatch, 
in the first place, because he wmuld have no desire to do such a 
thing, and in the second place, because he does not know her nor 
where she lives. As for Monsieur de Pontaumur, 1 do not think 
that he has had the audacity to telegraph to the young lady: i have 
killed yoxxx fiance. Of the seconds. Captain Morgan is incapable of 
committing an infamy ot that sort, and base as Corleon is, he does 
not do evil for the pleasure of doing it. But, 1 think it must be 
Maurice she is watching for; she knew that he was going to fight 
to-day, for he told her so himself, perhaps she even knew that the 
duel was to take place in the plain ot Gennevilliers, and she thinks 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. ^^9 

that Maurice will arrive at the Saint Lazare station; besides, he 
lives, or rather lived, in the Rue Caumartin, and, it he had returned 
from the duel, he would have- lost no lime in hastening to see her. 
She is dying of anxiety and perhaps she has been for hours at that 
window. 1 think it is the window of her studio.’' 

As the carriage drew nearer, Courtenay looked up to make sure 
that he was not mistaken. 

“It is indeed she,” he murmured. “She is looking down the 
street and does not see me. 1 am sorry for that, tor it she saw me, 
she would guess at once that an accident had happened to Maurice 
and i should find her a little prepared to receive the terrible news 1 
bring her. Poor little girl! What a blow 1 must give her! Unless 
— but no, Maurice’s raving had not common sense, and she loved 
him. 1 will commence with the mother, and if 1 can avoid a Ute-a 
Me wilh the daughter it will be much easier tor me; and after all, 
why not? It is proper that the interview should take place in 
Madame Mezenc’s presence, and tny mission will be none the less 
fulfilled; 1 promised Maurice that I would myself apprize Made- 
moiselle Mezenc of his death, but I did not promise that there should 
be no one else present, and it does not depend upon me to prevent 
her mother from being there.” 

The carriage stopped and George got out, but, before entering the 
house, he looked up. 

“ IShe is no longer there,” he said to himself. “ Bid she see me? 
1 shall know that immediately, for if she did she will not wait for 
me to ask to see her. 1 should not be very much astonished if she 
came herself to open the door.” 

But George was mistaken. A maid appeared in answer to his 
ring, and did not appear astonished to see him, although he came 
rarely to Mme. Mezenc’s. 

“Madame Mezenc is in the salon,” she said, “and 1 will an- 
nounce monsieur.” 

This was quickly done, for there were the ante-chamber and the 
dining-room to cross. 

Courtenay knew the apartment, which was not large, and he re- 
membered the room where the young lady worked was separated 
from the salon by two sleeping chambers. 

“ It seems that she did not see me/’ he thought. “ So much the 
worse, the blow will be more severe.” 

Mme. Mezenc was sealed in a corner of the fireplace in her inva- 
lid's chair, a chair made expressly for her, from plans drawn by her 


40 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

daughter, who had a talent for mechanics, and given her by Mau- 
rice SauHeu. 

This ingenious chair moved upon rollers and, by using her hands, 
the paralytic could transport herself from one place to another. 

She read easily from a movable desk, fixed to one of the* arms. 
She passed three quarters of her time in this seat; she embroidered 
there, eat there, and slept there until the time came for her nurse to 
put her to bed. 

Mme. Mezenc was scarcely fifty, and it was now ten years since 
she had been reduced to this sad state, which she supported wdth 
extraordinary courage. 

It IS true that she suffered only at intervals, but her hours of pain 
did not make her ill-tempered nor injure the clearness of her mind. 
She never complained, although she felt her misfortune very keenly^ 
She never gave way to that discouragement which takes possession 
of the stoutest hearts in those desperate cases where the invalid had 
no other prospect than death after long suffering. 

She liked to talk and she talked well, without pretense or ill nat- 
ure. She was kind-hearted without affectation, gentle without 
weakness, and, in fact, her only fault was loving her daughter too 
well, loving her passionately, almost violently. She lived only for 
her and in her. 

She had once possessel rare beauty, and she still preserved traces 
of it. She had beautiful teeth, her forehead was un wrinkled, and 
her eyes had lost nothing of their brightness. Her hair, white as 
snow, was marvelously becoming, and did not age her. 

Courtenay had never before been so struck with her sweet face. 
It must be said that he did not see her often; be had called on her 
once or twice since Maurice’s marriage had been settled, but he had 
never been alone with her, as his friend had always accompanied 
him. 

To-day, his face naturally wore a grave expression, and he was 
not a little surprised at the reception accorded him by Marianne’s 
mother. 

“ How kind you^are, dear monsieur,” she said, smiling brightly, 
“ and how glad 1 am you have had the courage to mount my three 
flights of stairs.” 

“She knows nothing,” thought George. “It appears that her 
daughter does not confide in her.” 

“ Sit down near me, and let us talk,” continued Mme. Mezenc, 
gavly. “ 1 have a multitude of questions to ask 3 ^ou.” 

“ And 1, madame, came to—” 


THE COETSEQUEKCES OF A 1)UEL. 


41 


“ In the first place, what have done with Monsieur Saulieu?” 
George, who had sealed himself, almost started up again; but 
I Mme. Mezenc took no notice, and w^ent on in her pleasant, well- 
modulated voice: 

“ Y^ou absorb him, and that is very bad of you. 1 acknowledge 
that you have almost aright to be angiy with us, for we also take 
him away from you. Lovers neglect their friends. But you take 
loo great a vengeance; we have not seen him for two days.” 

” Here 1 am in a nice position,” thought Courtenay. ” 1 can not 
answer her point-blank, ‘ Tou will never see him again. He is 
dead!’ ” 

“Oh! 1 am not uneasy. We know that he consulted you before 
doing me the honor to ask my daughter’s hand, and that you spoke 
in her favor. I am profoundly grateful to you, for you scarcely 
knew her, and you could not judge of her merits. 1 assure you, 
she has not forgotten all the good you said of her. If Monsieur 
Maurice knew in what terms she speaks of .you to me, 1 think he 
would be jealous.” 

“ 1 am very much touched, madame; but 1 must tell you — ” 

“You can tell me anything you like presently; but 1 want very 
much to assure you that my daughter and 1 both intend that your 
friend’s marriage shall not prerent you from seeing one another as 
intimately as formerly. You wull not draw away from him, 1 
hope; and, besides, it is not written that you will not marry your- 
self. 1 even think that a little bird has whispered something in my 
ear in regard to tliat very matter.” 

Courtenay made a gesture of denial. 

“ If 1 did not fear to be indiscreet, 1 would suggest to yon an 
dea which has come to me, but it would be perhaps a little too 
soon.” 

“ I assure you, madame, that 1 have no desire to throw celibacy 
to the winds,” asseverated George. 

“ And I have no design of converting you. Let us talk of some- 
thing else. Do you see Madame Brehal often?” she asked, with a 
smile. 

“ Kot oftener than usual,” replied George, with a certain impa- 
tience. 

“ She is one of the most charming wmmen I know, and I am ab- 
solutely astonished that she remains a widow. She is twenty-five, 
exceedingly fretty, has much wit, what is better, much heart, and 
a magnificent fortune. . I shouid like her to have a husband worthy 
pf her, and if 1 knew one— You are going to ask me why 1 am sc 


42 


THE COKSEQUENCES OF A DUEL, 


much interested in Madame Brehal’s happiness. You don’t know 
how good ste has been to my daughter—” 

” Pardtm me, madame; 1 do know it.. And, since you have 
spoken of Mademoiselle Mezenc, 1 — ” 

“You are surprised not to find her here. If you wish to see her, 
dear monsieur, you must go and seek her in her studio. She is 
seized with such a passion for painting, that if 1 should send the 
maid to ask her to come here, 1 doubt if she would do so. Y'es,” 
continued Mme. Mezenc, ‘‘it is a veritable rage, especially during 
the last few days. She works as if she had to make her living, and 
that, too, v^rhen she sees opening before her an unexpected future. 
Formerly, 1 encouraged her ta cultivate the taste she has for art. 
1 have such a small fortune, and when 1 am no more, her situation 
would have been so precarious that 1 wished her to be in a posi- 
tion to do something for herself. Now, 1 can die in peace; she will 
have Maurice.” 

Courtenay, at these words, eould scarcely conceal a nervous move- 
ment. Mme. Mezenc’s discourse upon her daughter’s happiness 
troubled him so that he could no longer endure it. It rested with 
him to stop it by telling her the terrible news, but he did not dare, 
and, in fact, no one would have dared. 

He no longer desired even that Marianne should enter the room, 
for the presence of the poor girl would only add to the difficulties 
of the situation. He only thought of imagining some pretext to go 
and seek her in the studio, where she was doubtless awaiting in 
horrible torture to know her fate; and this pretext Mme. Mezenc 
had furni.shed him with. 

He hastened to take advantage of it. 

‘‘Indeed, madame,” with the most nonchalant air he could as- 
sume, ‘‘ 3 ^ou will doubtless consider me indiscreet, but if you think 
that Mademoiselle Mezenc does not wish to abandon her work, even 
for an instant, 1 am going to ask your permission to go to her stu- 
dio.” 

“Oh! 1 grant it with all my heart,” responded Mme. Mezenc. 

Are you not Maurice’s friend? And, between ourselves, I think 
Marianne will like to talk to you alone. She has secrets from me 
now, you will not believe it, but 1 have noticed it; and 1 warn you 
that she will overwhelm you with questions; ‘ What is M.iurice 
doing? Why hasn’t he been here yesterday and to day? Does he 
think of me? What does he say of me?’ and a hundred others, 
which you will have to answer or quarrel with her. These young 
girls are pitiless.” 


THE CONSEQUEl^CES OF A DUEL. 


43 


Courtenay listened, without a word, to this maternal outburst, 
lie was already up, and longed to be able to gx) without being iin 
polite. 

“ But,” continued Mme. Mezenc, “ Monsieur Saulieu has prob- 
ably sent a message by you to my daTighter. A message! what a 
grave word! But 1 use it designedly, because 1 Know that lovers 
attach importance to the most ordinar^^ things. Monsieur Saulieu 
has, perhaps, sent you as an embassador to implore Marianne’s indul- 
gence. There is a long absence to be pardoned, and he does not 
dare to come himself. 1 have guessed it, have 1 not?” 

Courtenay had not the courage to answer yes. lie simply bowed, 
and this vague sign was taken by Mine. Mezenc as a token of ac- 
quiescence. 

“ Go, monsieur,” she said; ” and do not abiidge your call. 1 am 
accustomed to solitude, and 1 foresee that Marianne will keep you 
as long as she can. Prepare, therefore, to acquit j^ourself as well as 
possible ot one of those tasks which friendship imposes. 1 warn 
you, also, that she generally works as she talks, and 1 hope that you 
will not be offended at seeing her continue to paint a fan or turn a 
napkin ling, while you are giving her news of Monsieur Saulieu.” 

Courtenay allowed Mme. Mezenc to keep her illusion, ahd has- 
tened to close the interview by bowing again, but this time very de- 
cidedly. 

There are bows which signify: ” Not a word more; 1 am going;” 
and the lady could not mistake it. 

He did not even soften the distinctness ot his pantomime by ac- 
companying it with a word or two expressive of a desire to continue 
his conversation with the mother after seeing the daughter. 

The truth was, that he intended to leave the apartment without 
entering the salon. He knew that this was practicable by passing 
through a passage which led directly from the antechamber to the 
studio, and he did not wish to see Mme. Mezenc again that da}-. 
One explanation was enough; he did not care to have two. And 
he feared less telling his bad tidings to Maurice’s -fiancee than to a 
pool woman who suspected nothing, and whom the sad news might 
kill. 

Mile. Mezenc knew that her lover was to fight, and that duels 
sometimes end tragically. She was, therefore, better prepared to 
receive the blow. 

The most difficult thing for the envoy on these sad occasions is 
the broaching the subject. To say to a woman who receives you 


44 THE COKSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 

with a smile upon her lips, “ I come as a messenger of death,” is 
horrible. 

When, on the contrary, her eyes question you anxiously, a look 
is a sufficient answer. There are gestures and looks which an- 
nounce a death as clearly as a black-bordered letter. 

Courtenay was very much agitated when he reached the door of 
the studio. 

He was not obliged to knock, for the door was open, and he saw 
the young girl seated near the window, in an attitude which admi- 
rably displayed her beauty, although doubtless she had not taken her 
pose with that intentioD. 

She was sitting with her head thrown back against the chair, her 
eyes half closed, and her hands folded in her lap. She was pale, and 
the pure line of her profile was distinctly outlined against the dark 
curtain. She looked like one of those statues which guard the 
tombs in the cemeteries of Italy, a rejuvenated Mater Dolorosa, or a 
Magdalen in the desert. 

Had she fallen asleep, after long hours ot waiting? Was she 
dreaming of her lover? Did she see him struck to the earth by the 
ball of his adversary? Courtenay was tempted to believe it, for 
her features expressed suffering, and her breast heaved as it op- 
pressed'by some terrible dream. He did not dare to advance and 
lie was very near beating a retreat. He made a slight movement, 
however, and she rose immediately. 

“\ou!” she exclaimed, coming toward him. “It is you, and 
you are alone! Ah! ray presentiments did not deceive me. He is 
dead!” 

“Yes,” murmured George, profoundly moved; “ he is dead. He 
died as brave men die upon the field of battle.” 

“1 knew it.” 

“You saw me in the street, and you guessed — ” 

“ No; it was he whom 1 saw. 1 saw him two days ago in a state 
of excitement bordering upon madness. 1 saw him, 1 tell you, and 
a few hours ago, 1 felt a terrible pain; it seemed to me that my 
heart was breaking.” 

“ His last thougnt was for you. He died pronouncing your name; 
and before expiring in my arms, he made me promise to come my. 
self and tell you.” 

“ 1 myself asked him to allow no one but you to come.” 

Courtenay did not attempt to repress a start of surprise, and she 
continued, bitterly: 

“You tliink ill of me, acknowledge it, monsieur. You accuse 


THE CO]SrSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


45 


me of indifference because 1 do not sob, because my eyes are dry, 
because 1 speak to you as if he were not ray fiance. You do not 
know, you can not know, what 1 suffer, for you do not know me. 

1 am twentj^, 1 ought to feel as girls of twenty do, but Heaven has 
made me otherwise: 1 have no tears.’' 

“ Great sorrows are silent,” faltered Courlenay, more and more 
astonished. 

” Do you ttink 1 would not weep if 1 could? It 1 should tell you 
that 1 am the cause of his death, would you doubt me still? AYould 
you still accuse me of being insensible, when my heart is riven in 
two?’' 

“ It was true then! Maurice fought to avenge you?” 

” He told you that! 1 knew that he would tell you. Did he tell 
you also that 1 did my best to prevent this duel? that 1 begged him 
to take no notice of the infamous words, and that he refused to 
listen to me? Did he tell you that those words were of such a nat- 
ure that they could not hurt me, and that the man who uttered them 
deserved only contempt?” 

” 1 blamed Maurice for having struck Monsieur de Pontaumur in. 
the face, but there are offenses which a man of honor does not tol- 
eiate, and if any one should publicly attack the reputation of a 
young girl I was about to marry, 1 should act as my friend did.” 

“ Even if the attacks were wildly extravagant?’ 

” 1 do not know what Monsieur de Pontaumur said, but — ” 

” He said that Monsieur Saulieu had played a farce in asking my 
hand, that the marriage would never take place.” 

” That was simply absurd and m one could have believed him. 
if the man said only that — ” 

” He said that Monsieur Saulieu would not marry me, because 
a man does not marry a woman when he has been her— lover.” 

‘‘Ah! that was infamous, and 1—” 

” Infamous, yes, but more absurd than infam.ous, unless you 
think as he did.” 

“ Oh, mademoiselle!” said Courtenay, sadly. ” How can you say 
that? 1 know, you and 1 knew Maurice. One must be a Monsieur 
de Pontaumur to believe such infamies.” 

‘‘You forget that 1 am poor,” continued the young girl, bitterly, 
” and that Monsieur Saulieu was rich.” 

‘‘ 1— no, 1 do not understand,” 

” What! you do not understand that it must have been sup- 
posed that 1 was only too glad to get the chance to marry him?” 

^ ‘‘ Well? Whoever thought that was mistaken, for you were 


46 


THE COXSEQUEl!sCES OF A DUEL. 


wolthy of him. Your merit comi>ensated tor the inequality of 
fortune. But there is a great distance from this mistake to an 
abominable accusation.” 

‘‘Not so great as you think, monsieur. It was thought lhat 1 
was ambitious, that 1 wished this marriage at any cost, and ttiat I 
speculated on Monsieur Saulieu’s generous instincts to accord me 
reparation. ” 

“ But, 1 say again, this is senseless!” ^ 

” What matters that? Calumny has wings, and it ended by reach- 
ing my ears. 1 disdained to defend myself. 1 knew the author of 
it and why he hated me.” 

” Monsieur de Puntaumur? What reason had he for hating you?” 

‘‘ He persecuted me with his attentions, and 1 let him see the 
antipathy with which he inspired me; and so he revenged himself.” 

“ But he did not come here. Your mother does not receive, or, 
at least, she receives onl}'- intimate friends.” 

” She made a mistake in thinking that Monsieur de Ponlaumur 
desired to marry me and she tolerated his visits. My mother has a 
fixed idea, to marry me advantageously; but she closed her doors 
to him when 1 proved to her his real character. Unfortunately, 1 
have not ceased to encounter him in the society to which my aunt, 
Madame Fresna}^ takes me. It was at a ball that Monsieur Saulieu 
heard a conversation in which my name was pronounced.” 

” Who dared to say anything before him?” 

” Friends of Monsieur de Pontaumur. It was a fatality. They 
were talking in a door-way between two salons, and they did not see 
Monsieur M. Saulieu, who was hidden by a^qiirlain.” . 

” He should have demanded satisfaction from them.” 

” They said they had heard the calumo}" they repeated from their 
friend, which was true. My aunt knew that the rumor had been 
put in circulation by Monsieur de Pontaumur, and she had the im- 
prudence to tell it to Monsieur Saulieu, and to me— to me!” 

Courtenay made a gesture which expressed what he thought of 
Madame Fresnay’s conduct. 

‘‘ 1 understood that Monsieur Saulieu would not tolerate this insult, 
and 1 proffered an explanation which he had the delicacy not to ask. 

1 told him why that wretch sought to ruin my reputation, and 1 
begged him to do nothing about it. I represented to him the conse- 
f(uences which an outbreak would have for me. He answered that 
he had found a means to avoid that, but that he was decided to tight 
— and— you know the rest. 1 did all I could to prevent the duel, 
and 1 should have prevented it if — ” 


THE COKSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 47 

“ Go on, mademoiselle.” 

“ If Monsieur Saulieu had not taken before that interview, which 
was the last, a desperate resolve. He wished to die.” 

” lie! But he was happy; he loved, he was loved, you had con- 
sented to marry him.” 

” And 1 should have kept my promise; but he demanded what I 
could not give him.” 

” What! 5 "ou loved him?” 

” Not as he loved me. 1 felt for him friendship, esteem, gratL 
tude, but 1 did not share that passionate love with which 1 had in- 
spired him, and 1 could not feign a sentiment 1 did not feel. Now, 
1 reproach myself bitterly for not having hidden the truth from him 
better. But my courage failed me; 1 could not lie.” 

” And yet, when he asked your hand — ” 

” 1 said yes, and 1 should have been to him the most devoted of 
wives, 1 should have done everything in my power to have rendered 
him happy and to have kept him in ignorance of the nature of the 
attachment 1 had for him.” 

” How did he discover his mistake? Did you enlighten him?” 

‘‘ No, T assure you 1 did not. 1 had a presentiment that a sin„ 
cere avowal would kill him, and 1 was silent although he begged 
me to speak. He laid traps to surprise a secret which 1 concealed 
in my inmost heart: 1 avoided them. 1 had sworn to myself not to 
disturb his happiness: and then 1 too indulged in illusions, 1 nursed 
the hope that the clouds which threatened my life would roll away, 
that once married 1 should forget what 1 felt, what 1 feel still ; 1 had 
more than a month to struggle in, to struggle against myself. 1 did 
not foresee the misfortune before me: a day came, a fatal day, 
when Maurice guessed all. It was on that day be resolved to die, and 
he is dead; he died cursing me perhaps, me who would have given 
my heart's blood to have saved him.” 

” That day was the 27th of March,” said Courtenay, slowly. 

” The 27th of March,” repeated the young girl, turning pale. 

What do you mean?” 

” You have forgotten the date. Maurice remembered it.” 

” What! he spoke of it! What did he tell you? Hide nothing 
from me, monsieur, 1 can bear all. 1 have suffered so much, that 
one wound the more can not hurt me.” 

Maurice did not speak. He wrote.” 

“To you?” 

“ Yes, to me, a letter, all of which 1 could not read,” 

“Y^hy?” 


48 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL 


“ Because this letter was in his breast-pocket in a pocket-book, in 
which he had placed other papers.” 

‘‘ And it was in this letter he toid you?” 

” No. He only spoke in that of the will which he had made and 
which he begged me to take to his notary. But 1 found a few 
words in his handwriting, written in pencil upon the leaf of a 
memorandum book; 1 did not understand the meaning of these 
words, but 1 do now, and when you have seen them, you will see 
that he must have written them the day he perceived that you did 
not love him.” 

George was about to produce the pocket-book, but Mile. Hezenc 
stopped him. 

‘‘ 1 do not wish to see them,” she said, quickly. 

‘‘ But in this pocket-book, there is also— your portrait, the one 
you gave him just before Christmas, and below this portrait, you 
have written your name.” 

** 1 do not take back what 1 have given.” 

” Pardon me, mademoiselle,” replied Courtenay, dryly, ” it was 
not to me that you gave the picture, and 1 can not keep ii.” 

” Well, burn it, then.” 

Courtenay started. Mlie. Mezenc’s words and manner seemed 
to him so strange that he wondered if sorrow had not a&ecled her 
brain. She guessed what he was thinking, and said in a different 
tone : 

“You also, monsieur, accuse me of having no heart. Everybody 
will think so when they know that the blow which has fallen upon 
me has made no change in my life. The opinion of others is indif- 
ferent to me, and 1 forgive you for thinking badly of me. You do 
not know me, you will never know me; no one knows me, not even 
my mother.” 

“ I am sorry to have wounded you, mademoiselle, but 1 had a 
duty to fulfill, and—” 

“ 1 thank you for having come, and 1 beg you to hear me to the 
end. 1 want you to know what 1 am going to do, and why 1 do it. 
If 1 could shut myself up in a convent, 1 wmuld enter one to-morrow^; 
but my mother needs me, and in her state of health, any violent 
emotion wouldXkill her.” 

“ That was the reason 1 had not the courage to tell her that Mau- 
rice was dead.” 

“You had seen her, then?” 

“ Certainly. I thought that you knew it.” 


49 


THE COXSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 

“And you said nothing to hei! Thanks! oh, thanks! i ex- 
pected no less of you.” 

“ Madame Mezenc can not always be ignorant.” 

“ iShe will know that Monsieur Saulieu is dead, later, when 1 
hav^e prepared her for the blow; but she shall never know that he 
was killed in a duel, she must never know it, and 1 will see that 
others do not tell her.” 

George was silent, but his face showed that he was not convinced. 

“ You doubt that being possible? Trust me, monsieur. My 
mother will believe what 1 wish her to believe, and 1 shall begin by 
telling her that the marriage she has dreamed ot lor me will not take 
place. 1 have already let her suspect that 1 consented to it against 
the dictates of my heart. 1 shall tell her that i have withdrawn my 
consent, that 1 have signified my resolution to Monsieur Saulieu, 
and that 1 shall never marry. 1 will even confess, if necessary, that 
1 have learned to my sorrow what it costs a poor girl to become 
engaged to a rich man, and 1 shall declare that 1 will receive no one 
again on the footing 1 have received Monsieur Saulieu, no one, not 
even you, monsieur, for it might be said of you what was said of 
him.” 

“ Do you think that 1 would suffer any one to slander you?” 
cried George. 

“ No,” said the girl, her e 3 ^es burning with a singular light; “ 1 
think that you would do what your friend has done, and 1 do not 
wish you to fall by the sword of a scoundrel. 1 shall never forgive 
myself for having been the involuntary cause of this fatal duel, and 
if the same misfortune should happen to you, that time I should die. 
George started in amazement and Mile. Mezenc turned away her 
head; one would have said that she feared to let him see the feeling 
reflected on her face. 

“ The sword!” repeated George, sadly. “ Didn’t you know that 
Maurice had to submit to the conditions of that man who dared to 
maintain that he was the insulted party? Did not Maurice tell you 
that he was going to fight with pistols?” 

“ No,” murmured Marianne. “ He only told me that he was to 
fight to-day at three o’clock, and 1 had not the courage to question 
him further.” 

” 1 wished him to fight with swords; and, had 1 known what took 
place before the scene of violence which made Maurice the oflender, 
1 should have prevented the meeting, for 1 should have fought in 
his place, and 1 should not, like him, have placed myself in the 


50 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


wrong. But what difference does it make what 1 would have done? 
Maurice is dead, and you think of taking a desperate resolution — ” 

“ Do not pity me, monsieur. 1 carry misfortune to all those who 
approach me. It is just that L should condemn myself to isolation. 
My life, henceforth, is already traced out ; I shall take refuge in work, 
which will not give me peace of mind, but which will, at least, in- 
sure me independence. • 1 am clever enough to make sufficient for 
my mother’s support an /I my own.” 

“ If 1 should tell you that perhaps Maurice has provided—’’ 

‘‘1 do not understand,” interrupted Mile. Mezenc, raising her 
head. 

” In the letter he wrote to make known to me his last wishes, he 
spoke of his will.” 

” 1 hope that he has not insulted ire by leaving me his fortune.” 

“Insulted! Oh! Mademoiselle I” 

** Yes, insulted; for people would say worse things than ever of 
me.” 

“You were his fiancee, you would have been his wife, and he 
had the right to leave you his property.” 

“ Perhaps, but 1 have also the right not to accept it.” 

“ Then you would refuse to benefit by his will!” 

“ 1 was not mistaken, then! That will — ” 

“ 1 do not know what it contains. 1 have not seen it.” 

“But you will see it.” 

“ If I find it, yes.” 

“ You told me just now that he had confided it to you.” 

!No, you are mistaken, unfortunately, for it may be lost.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Pardon me for returning to a sad subject and entering into 
painful details; the letter in which Maurice spoke of the will was 
in the pocket-book, the one 1 have here; he carried it in his pocket 
when he went on the field, and Monsieur de Pontaumur’s bullet — ” 

“ Well?” asked Mile. Mezenc, trembling. 

“ The bullet pierced the paper as it pierced your picture.” 

“ This is horrible!” 

“ AEd it cairied away the passage in which Maurice told me 
what I had to do to find his will. Do you wish to see the letter?” 

“No! Oh! INo!” cried the young girl, stretching out her hands 
as if to repulse the bloody relic which Courtenay offered to show 
her. 

“ 1 can understand that it is repugnant for you to touch it, but 1 
may at least tell you what 1 read, which was; ‘ 1 ask you to take to 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 51 

my notary my 'will, 'which is perfectly regular. Tou will find it in 
the — ’ The rest of the sentence is missing/’ 

“ The ball could not have destroyed it, and if it is souj^ht-*^* 

Mile. Mezenc stopped short in the middle of a thoughtless re- 
sponse. The words which she had spoken evoked a trighttul pict- 
ure. This ball was in Maurice’s breast and the idea of seeking 
there with a scalpel made her shudder. George divined wh}^ she 
did not finish, and hastened to add: 

“ Maurice evidently meant some piece of furniture, with which 1 
was familiar. He must have spoken to me, before the duel, of this 
ver}’’ thing, but, in 'the hurry attending the preparations for the en- 
counter, 1 have forgotten what he said, but 1 shall do my best to 
recall it.” 

” ^^hat is the use?” murmured Marianne. “It is much better 
that the w\\] should never be found. Monsieur Saulieu’s relatives 
will inherit, and 1 shall not suffer from the affront which 1 tear. 
Besides, whatever happens, 1 am determined to receive nothing 
from him. If he had inflicted upon me the shame of making me 
his heir, you would brins’ me the will and 1 would burn it. 1 liave 
already declared to you, monsieur, that 1 wish to owe nothing to 
auy one except myself. My measures are taken, and, from to-mor- 
row, I shall receirre orders which will take all iny lime. Do not be 
astonished if you no longer see me in society.” 

‘‘ No one will be astonished, that, after an event which makes you 
a widow — ” 

“lam not a widow, as 1 have never been married, and 1 shall 
ask Madame Fresnay to deny any report that 1 was to have been 
married. She will perhaps demand from me that 1 continue to ap- 
pear at her house on her leception-days. If 1 should cease to 
go there, people would believe that she did not speak the truth. 1 
shall have the courage to show myself at her Fridays. Oh! do not 
hasten to condemn me,” she added, noticing a movement of Cour- 
tenay’s, almost immediately repressed. “ 1 do not wish any one to 
guess rny secret. I shall go to her house with death in my heart, 
but 1 shall go. 1 must.” 

“1 do not blame you, mademoiselle,” said Courtenay, with 
marked coldness; “ only, 1 can not help thinking that you will ex- 
pose yourself to meeting in Madame Fresnay’s salon the man who 
killed Maurice Saulieu.” 

“ You are mistaken, monsieur,” replied Marianne, drawing her- 
self up. “ I have insisted on my aunt’s forbidding him the house, 
and 1 will not submit to Monsic-ir de Pontauinur's presence. 


52 


THE COKSEQUEKCb]S OF A DUEL. 


Heaven grant that you also may not have to meet him, you, who 
were present at the murder.” 

“You probably mean that 1 shall be forced to see him at the club, 
of which we both are members. No, mademoiselle; 1 shall not see 
him there. If he does not feel that after this duel he ought to re- 
tire from the club where be was publicly struck, if he dares ever to 
set his foot inside it, 1 shall go there no more and send in my resig- 
nation.” 

” Monsieur de Pontaumur goes often to Madame Brehal’s.” 

** flow do you know that?” 

” He has boasted of it, at all events, and you are very intimate 
there. Can you induce her not to receive him?” 

1 his was too much. George did not answer this embarrassing 
question, and he thought now only of retiring. 

”1 will conform to your wishes, mademoiselle,” he said. “1 
shall do everything which my friendship for Maurice demands, and 
I shall see that his intentions are carried out. But your name shall 
not be pronounced, and nothing will prevent you from acting as it 
you had never been Monsieur Saulieu*s betrothed. ]Nced I add that 
1 shall not trouble the repose you aspire to?” 

” Do you mean that 1 shall not see you again?” asked Marianne, 
with an emotion she did not seek to conceal. 

‘‘ 1 only beg you to excuse me to your mother, if she is astonished 
that 1 have left without saying good-bye to her.” 

With these coldly polite words, George bowed and departed. 

The door had remained open, and he knew how to reach the 
staircase without entering the salon. He left hurriedly, but not so 
quickly but that he could hear the young girl sobbing. 

He did not think of going back to console her, but went away, 
outraged and still more afflicted. 

” To kill oneself for a woman!” he muttered to himself. ” There 
is one for whom Maurice sacrificed his life, and, on hearing of his 
death, she thought only of saving her compromised reputation. She 
diti not show one spark of feeling. What can she hope to attain 
with her ridiculous plans? Her mother will learn the truth sooner 
or later, and her aunt will never persuade any one that her mar- 
riage was never intended.” 

George, talking to himself, descended the stairs two at a time. 
At the tenth he was already saying: 

” 1 must, however, do her the justice to say that she was disin- 
terested. Her pride revolted when 1 spoke of the will. And she is 
frank, for she did not hide that she never had any love for Mau- 


THE COIs^SEQUKN^CKS OF A DUEL. 


53 


rice. She did not play the comedy of regrets. It is not her fault, 
after all, if Maurice inspired her only with friendship,” he thought, 
on reaching the first floor. 

And, at the foot of the stairs— 

“ Why did she speak to me of Madame Brehal? AVhy did she 
recall that Madame Brehal had the weakness to receive Monsieur de 
Pontaumur? One would say that she was .iealous. If it ivere true 
what Maurice told me! If she loves me!” 

On his way home, George made laudable attempts to chase away 
this idea, and only half succeeded. 


CHAPTER 111. 

The fashion is for hotels. English customs have become im- 
planted in France, and the idea of a home has gained upOn the more 
sociable Parisians. They do not yet divide their cafes into com- 
paiiments, as in London, where the drinkers wish to be in solitude 
to absorb their grog, but the English selection of a domicile has 
become fashionable. The Parisians no longer wish for neighbors. 

The rich bourgeois who were contented, thirty years ago, with a 
fine apartment on the first floor, in a central quarter, now think 
themselves obliged to inhabit an hotel a long way from the Boule- 
vard des Italiens. They die of ennuis but they follow the fashion, 
and they have a house to themselves. 

M. Brehal, a millionaire banker, purchased, a few years back, a 
handsome house in the Avenue de Villiers, with a large garden 
planted with beautiful trees, and bordering upon a street recently 
laid out. 

This financier, who was just married, gave the place to his bride 
as a wedding present, but he had no time to establish himself there 
with her. Six months after, Mme. Brehal was a widow, at nine- 
teen, and alone in the world, for she had lost both her parents when 
a child. Already rich in her own right, and broughi up in the ideas 
of the bourgeoisie, to which she belonged, she found it quite nat- 
ural to marry, on leaving the convent, a man who possessed a large 
fortune, and whom she scarcely knew. He did not displease her, 
moreover, and, at his death, she had sincerely mourned him; but 
she had never pretended to be inconsolable, and, her regulation 
mourning over, she did not fly from worldly distractions. 

The hotel, transformed under her direction, and furnished anew 
with intelligent taste, had opened its doors to Parisian society. Her 


54 THE COl^SEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

fatnily belonged to the commercial aristocracy, and among her 
school friends theie were many who had made wealthy marriages, 
and who liked to receive as much as she did. From her acquaint- 
ances, and those of her husband. Mine. Brehal made a choice; there 
were cnouirh to torm the nucleus of a pleasant society, but she had 
extended little by little the circle of her friends, and as she pitilessly 
excluded the bores of both sexes, her house was one of those where 
witty people liked to go. A person was received there only on con- 
dition of furnishing his or her contingent of gayety and intelligence, 

Mme. Brehal did not pose as a protectress of artistic and literary 
celebrities; she avoided blue-stockings, and men of talent were only 
admitted if they were also men 6t good breeding. She did not have 
readings at her house, nor launch unappreciated poets; she wished 
her guests to be amused, and they were amused. 

This independent attitude, of course, caused severe criticism. 
Many women said that she lived too much outside of sOvUal rules, 
and found fault with her exclusiveness. Many men declared that a 
young widow, with two hundred thousand francs a year, had no 
right to remain a widow, and they did not hesitate, most of them 
being by the 'way rejected suitors, to say: Seek the lover! 

They did seek, but they did not find him. 

Mme Brebal did not conceal that she bad her favorite friends, 
but she lived in the full light of day; her hotel was a house of glass. 
A '^’oman can not have secrets when she is served by numeious 
domestics, and ]\lme. Brehal kept a dozen. 

On the other hand, she did not hesitate to stop her carriage be- 
fore the hotel in the Rue de Milan, whenever she chose. 

George Courtenay was assuredly Hie dearest of her intimate 
friends, ami, during the last year, especially, she had admitted him 
on a fooling which somewhat astonished her acquaintances. 

George openly professed his admiration for Mme. Brehal, praised 
her virtues and excused her faults; he w’as always ready to bieak 
a lance for her, like a veritable Don Quixote; he even declared that, 
it ever he should lire of a bachelor’s life, he should become a suitor 
for Hie hand of this queen of widows, but be never failed to add 
gayly that she wouldn’t have him. Mme. Brehal, on her side, said 
to any one who cared to bear it, that, of all the men she knew, 
George Courtenay was the only one for whom a woman like herself 
could sacrifice’ her libert}^ but that pleasant companionship was 
worth more than love, and that the sacrifice, moreover, would be 
reciprocal, for M. Courtenay bad no desire to wear the cha'ns of 
matrimony. To the more or less well-intentioned wiseacres who 


j THE COJq'SEQXTEN-CES OE A DUEL. 55 

i showed her the danger of giving cause for calumny, she replied that 
I she despised slanderers. 

And when they spoke in this way, they both meant what they 
I said. 

i For some months, however, the character of their relations had 
Ueen Fomewhat altered. Mme. Brehal seemed to wish to enter more 
I into George’s life. She questioned him laughingly in regard to his 
plans for the future, spoke to him of his'^riends, wished to know 
what he thought of them, M. Saulieu among others, was interested 
in what he did, in the horses he bought, the card-parties where he 
lost his money, and the talfc of the club. She even permitted her- 
i self, now and then, to give him a word of advice. 

And more than once George had wondered if he were not in love 
with jMme. Brehal w’ithout being aware of it. He perceived that 
he liked to be with her, and the pleasures with which he had been 
contented palled upon him. As tar as marrying her went, he scarcely 
thought of it, or thought of it only as a sub-lieutenant thinks of the 
life he will lead when he is a retired general. But when twenty-four 
houis went by without his seeing her he felt that something was 
lacking in his life. 

So he was only too glad to keep the appointment she had taken 
the pains of coming to the Rue de Milan to make, while Maurice 
was d^dng in the redoubt of Gennevilliers. 

After his visit to Mme. Mezenc, George returned home, very much 
troubled, wishing to be alone, determined to close his door to every 
one, but also determined to accept the invitation of Mme. Brehal, his 
best and only counselor. 

A dispatch came about seven o’clock from the doctor, saying that, 
if no unforeseen incident occurred, heshould hope to return to Paris 
that evening, and asking Courtenay to wait for him in the Rue de 
Milan. 

George naturally dined at home. He was in no humor to dine at 
the club wilh numerous companions. But at nine o’clock, Cou- 
langes not having appeared, he ordered his coupe, and, at half-past 
nine, stopped before the monumenlal gateway of Mme. BrehaEs 
hotel. 

He was expected, for tl^e aatrway was open, and the entrance of 
the coupe was immediately signaled by the ringing of a bell and 
the appearance of two footmen in livery. 

He was well acquainted with the hotel, the interior arrangements 
and decorations of which the charming widow had superintended 


56 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

lierself, and, yet, every time lie came there, he marveled as if he had 
never seen it. 

Even in the vestibule it was easy to see that one was in the house 
of a woman who cared nothing for expense, for the princely fur- 
nishing must have cost immense sums, and also in the house of a 
woman of taste. Although everything was luxurious nothing 
shocked the eye, and there was a touch of originality in the most 
minor details. 

The vestibule was paved with black marble, and across it was a 
broad band of Persian carpet, which entirely covered the staircase, 
lighted by large on^^x candelabra and paneled with immense mirrors 
which reflected the light and doubled its effect. 

“Does madame receive this evening?” asked Courtenay, a little 
surprised at the illumination. 

“ Madame is at home to monsieur, ’’-replied the footman, evasivel}’. 
George followed him without further question. He remembered 
that one of Mme. Brehal’s numerous fancies was to have ail the 
candelabra and lusters lighted, even when she expected no one. She 
said a lady had no right to reserve brilliancy for great receptions, 
after the fashion of provincials who dress only nn f^te days, and 
lake the covers off the furniture in the salon only when they have 
company to dinner. 

As he mounted the magnificent staircase George thought of the 
little lodging in the Rue Blanche, where he had left Mile. Mezeuc 
alone with her sorrow. He understood better now the words she 
had spoken and which had seemed to him so strange. “ What a 
punishment,” he said to himself, “to be young, beautiful, and 
proud, when one is poor, and what courage she must have to sup- 
port the life Maurice’s death has given to her. There is no great 
merit in Mme. Brehal’s resignation to her widowhood, but ]\lari- 
anne reduced to work with her own hands, condemned loo to go 
into the world under penalty of social position — it is atrocious! All 
pretty women should have four millions and a palace like this.” 

It was indeed a palace that Mme. Brehal inhabited, and an artistic 
palace, which would put to shame many royal residences, only offi- 
cial inns built for the use of some king or empeior. 

The dining-room, which Courtenay crossed, did not resemble one 
of those galleries fit to give banquets with sixty covers to the great 
dignitaries of the {State. • It had only one window, but an immense, 
deep window, all shrouded in plants like a conservatory. The ceil- 
ing was of carved oak; the walls were hung with Cordova leather, 
stamped with arabesques of color. The sideboard in the style of the 


THE COIS’SEQTJENCES OF A DE^EL. 


57 


Kenaissance, was flanked by figures of sirens, bearing garlands ot 
flowers. And the chairs of old oak had high exquisitely carved 
backs. 

Courtenay, who had dined once at Mme. Mezenc’s with Maurice, 
thought of the plain buftet, the mahogany table, and the cane-bot- 
tomed chairs. 

And when he entered the salon, where burnished panels alternat- 
ed with hangings of white velvet, where statues placed upon ebony 
pedestals elbowed lovely paintings on gilded easels, where superb 
arm-chairs majestically surrounded the fire-place, he recalled the en- 
gravings in cheap frames, the hired upright piano and waxed floor 
on which the paralytic rolled about her chair. 

Mme. Brehal was established this evening in the little salon, 
which led out ot the large one; this room was a charming little 
place, which she liked above all others, and where she admitted 
only her intimate friends. It was circular, the hangings were of 
China silk, and the chimney-piece was built like a little pagoda. 

The lady, sealed upon a sofa, covered with cushions of all colors, 
was reading by the soft light of a lamp of old Sevres, and she did 
not lift her eyes, when Courtenay raised, without being announced, 
the silken poi^tiere. 

She had never appeared to him more charming, and yet she did 
not efface from his memory the image of Marianne, whom sorrow 
rendered even more beautiful. 

The contrast was striking. 

Marianne was pale and dark as night, with great black eyes and 
arched eyebrows, the clear cut profile of a Greek statue and the 
figure of one ot Jean Goujon’s nymphs. 

Gabrielle Brehal petite and dimpled; her hair was of reddish 
gold, and her eyes blue, a little elongated toward the temples; she 
had the delicate nose and full lips of Mme. Dubarr}^ and the rosy 
complexion, brilliant teeth and sparkling smile ot one of Watteau’s 
shepherdesses. And upon this eighteenth century face, that cent- 
ury when the great affair was love, was an expression of frank 
gayety and good humor which won all hearts. 

“ 1 would bet that book she is reading does not interest her much,” 
thought George, without advancing. ” What is she thinking of?” 

The footman had discreetly retired, and in this perfumed retreat 
the silence was so profound that George could hear the almost im- 
perceptible sound of Mme. Brehal’s breathing. lie did not wish her 
to think that he had been spying upon her, and he decided to step 


58 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUE]. 

forward. It was enough to have surprised Mile. Mezenc some 
hours before. 

The lady started at the slight noise he made advancing over the 
carpet, and, when she perceived him, she rose and came toward him. 

“ 1 was beginning to despair of seeing you,'* she said, holding out 
her hand. ‘‘ Thanks lor having come, for having remembered that 
you still have a friend.'' 

“You know then?" 

“Yes 1 know that your unhappy friend is dead. 1 guessed that 
he was going to fight and that you were his second. It was not 
difficult to guess that. You had abandoned me for two days. 1 
even feared for an instant that your part in the duel was that of 
principal, but 1 inquired and was assured that it was not. I hoped 
that this encounter would be like so many others where no one is 
wounded, and yet 1 longed to know the result. It was for that rea- 
son 1 went to your house. Alas! 1 knew the fatal ending only too 
soon; on my way from the Bols, I stopped at my dress maker's and 
found there Madame Fresnay, who told me that Monsieur Saulieu 
had been killed." 

“ Madame Fresnay? How did she know it?" , 

“1 did not ask her. But — is she not a near relative of Made- 
moiselle Mezenc, whom Monsieur Saulieu was to marry?" 

“ Her aunt by alliance. And at the moment her niece was receiv- 
ing the terrible news of Maurice’s death she was occupied with 
ordering dresses." 

“ 1 was a litlie astonished at meeting her, and much more at see- 
ing that she did not appear in the least afflicted. Perhaps she did 
not approve this project of marriage?" 

“ It seems much more natural to think that she has no heart. You 
will acknowledge, at least, that it is Infinitely more probable." 

“ Do not let us hasten to judge her. Tell me about the young 
girl whom this catastrophe throws into mourning. But first," con- 
tinued Mme. Brehal, who still held George’s hand, drawing him 
toward the sofa she had left to receive him, “ come and sit down 
here opposite me. AVe can talk better face to face, and 1 have so 
many things to say to you this evening which 1 have kept for a very 
long time." 

George did not need to be urged to take the place which Mine.. 
Brehal assigned him. 

Like her, he was of the opinion that, t(» talk agreeably it is neces- 
sary to be opposite your companion. When sealed side by side you 
are obliged to turn your head at every sentence, and the dialogue 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


59 


loses much. You do not pay court to a woman when you sec only 
her profile. On such occasions the eyes say more than the lips. 

Gabrielle Brehal certainly did not wish any one to address burn- 
ing declarations to her, since she had no desire to be married again; 
and yet she had taken care that the little salon where she received 
her intimatrs should be amply provided with conveniences for 
conversation. 

Before the sofa on which she sat was an assortment of> arm- chairs, 
ottomans and stools. 

This eveuinc George’s heart was full of sadness, and the charm- 
ing woman who had summoned him, broached in the beginning a 
sorrowful subject; to tell the truth, he was not disposed to speak of 
anything else. 

“ Yes,” said Mme. Brehal, ” 1 asked you to come, because 1 ex- 
pect no one this evening and because 1 wished to have a long chat 
with you. 1 am interested in Mademoiselle Mezenc, and you are 
the only one who can inform me exactly as to her situation.” 

But,” answered George, “ you know her situation. Mademoi- 
selle Mezenc has no fortune, or so little that it is almost as if she 
had none. She and her mother live upon five or six thousand francs 
a year, and this meager income will be diminished one half on the 
death of the mother.” 

“ 1 know that she is poor. And Monsieur Saulieu’s death is a 
great misfortune to her; for, by marrying him, she would have 
made an unhoped-for marriage. Your friend was rich, was he 
not?” 

” Rich, no. He inherited from an uncle a few hundreds of thou- 
sands of francs.” 

“ That was much for a girl who has nothing. Besides, she loved 
him for himself, as he deserved to be, for he was a charming fel- 
low. L would have liked to have known him better, but he was 
very reserved, and you brought him here so rarely.” 

” He lived only for her, and it was for her that he died.” 

” What ! for her? 1 thought the duel was caused by a discussion 
over cards at the club, that club of which you are so fond.” 

” Maurice took as a pretext a scarcely offensive word to strike a 
man who had spread scandalous reports about Mademoiselle 
Mezenc.” 

‘‘ Then he did right. A man does not allow the woman he loves 
to be insulted. 1 was very badly informed. 1 heard that Monsieur 
Baulieu had provoked a quarrel with some one, 1 didn’t know 
whom, [don’t know now.” - 


60 THE CO^’ SEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

“ What! Didn’t Madame Presnay tell you?” 

** She told me that Monsieur Saulieu had been killed and nothing 
more. You can understand that 1 asked her no questions. Be- 
sides, she went away almost immediately. And tlien, 1 thought 
only of the unhappiness which had overtaken you; you had lost 
your dearest friend, and 1 cared little to know the name of his ad- 
versary.” 

' ‘ It is well however that you should know it, for this adversary 
may one of these days have an aftair with me; and as he is received 
at your house, 1 want to warn you—” 

” 1 hope that you are not going to risk your life to avenge Mon- 
sieur Saulieu,” said Mme. Brehal, quickly. ” But who is it?” 

“A, man whom 1 have always had a horror of and whom you 
receive. Monsieur de Pontaumur killed Maurice.” 

” Monsieur de Pontaumur! 1 confess that 1 thought him incap- 
able, not of fighting, but of speaking of a young girl so—” 

” Infamously, say the word. There is no other with which to 
qualify his conduct. He said to men, who have repeated it, that 
Mademoiselle Mezenc was Maurice’s mistress.” 

If he said that — ” 

” Do you doubt it?” 

” No, since you say so. But 1 am very much astonished. He 
has never spoken of her to me except in her praise.” 

” Do you undertake his defense?” asked Geoige, with a certain 
bitterness. 

” No, my friend,” answered Mme. Brehal, sweetly. ” 1 have no 
particular reasons for defending a man whom I meet everywhere 
and who comes here sometimes, as many others do, but whom 1 do 
not fancy.” 

” Why do you receive him, then?” 

” 1 might suggest to you that I am not obliged to render you an 
account of my conduct,” said Mme. Brehal, half smiling. ” But 1 
prefer to answer you quite simply that, on Wednesday's my house is 
open to all those who care to present themselves, and I have never 
thought of excluding Monsieur de Pontaumur, who is a well-bred 
man.” 

” It is perhaps for that reason that you do not see me often on 
that day.” 

” 1 have noticed, in fact, that you were frequently lacking at my 
weekly reunions. They are not always amusing, and 1 am not 
angry with you. If you should forsake me entirely, that would 
be difl:erent. But you are not sulky with me, since you are here.” 


THE COHSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


61 


“ Sulky! Ob, no. But 1 confess that if 1 were exposed to find- 
ing that man in your house — ” 

“ Is that a threat?” 

“Not even a condition. 1 have no right to impose conditions 
upon you, still less would I presume to threaten you. Acknowledge, 
though, that, after what has occurred to-day, 1 might very well ask 
you to choose betw^een Monsieur de Pontaumur and myselt.” 

“ 1 thought so. This is a regular ultimatum. You wish me to 
close my doors to him. 1 would ask nothing better, but it would 
be a mistake.” 

“M'hy?” 

“ Do you wish to know? Well, because Monsieur de Pontaumur 
has paid me attentions which 1 have pretended not to take in earnest, 
but which have not passed unnoticed. Some of my friends have 
spoken to me of it. It 1 should banish him they would thiDk that I 
was afraid of him, and that would lead to commentaries without 
end. Bow could 1 do it, besides? To close your door to a gentle- 
man you receive is easily said, but it is not so easily done when this 
gentleman has committed no act to publicly deserve it. I can not 
write to Monsieur de Pontaumur that I forbid him to set foot in my 
house without giving him any reason.” 

“ Y'ou can, at least, it he asks to see you, send word that you are 
not at home.” 

“ That is what 1 should do if he came, like you, the days i admit 
only my intimate friends. But on Wednesdays I do not belong to 
myself, so to speak. To keep Monsieur de Pontaumur out 1 should 
have to instruct my people; all Paris would know it.” 

“ And no one would be astonished that you no longer cared to see 
the murderer of Maurice Saulieu, my best iriend.” 

Mme. Brehal was silent and a pause followed this speech. She 
looked at Courtenay as it to ask him it he intended to complete the 
thought which his last words indicated, but as he aid not speak, she 
said: 

“ Y'ou are mistaken, my dear George. I was not very intimate 
with Monsieur Saulieu, I am so with you it is true, but — you are 
not my relative nor my husband. People would be astonished if I 
should forbid Monsieur de Pontaumur my house for the sole reason 
that he is your enemy. 1 am certain, moreover, that he will have 
the good taste to keep away. He has tact, and he can not be desir‘ 
ous of meeting you face to face.” 

“ He will do so, however, if he does not resign from the club,” 
replied Courtenay, with very marked ill-humor. 


62 THE COJSTbEQUENCES OF A DUEL, 

“ He will doubtless do so. Let us speak no more of him, I pray, 
but return to that young girl. What is she going to do now?'" 

“ She is going to work ior a living. She paints and carves wood, 
and she will try to make money out of her talents. 

“ Then she will renounce society?” 

No, she will go wherever she has been in the habit of going. She 
has even decided not to wear mourning for Saulieu, whom she was 
to have married in a month,” 

“ That is a strange resolution.” 

” Strange, yes, to those who do not know IVlademoiselle Mezenc.” 

” But you know her well, do you not?” 

” 1 commenced to know her a tew hours ago.” 

” 'you have seen her, then, since this unfortunate duel?” 

Maurice made me promise, before he died, to go myself and in- 
form her of his death. 1 have kept my word, and 1 almost regret 
having kept it. But why do you ask me what 1 ihink of YciS fiancee?'* 

‘‘Because 1 wish to be her friend, as you were the friend of 
Maurice Saulieu.” 

‘‘Tou; her friend!” exclaimed Courtenay. 

” Why not?” asked Mme. Brehal gently. “Do you not think 
her worthy of my friendship?” 

” 1 do not say that.” 

” Or do you think that 1 do not merit that she should accord me 
hers*?” 

” 1 think that she would be only too fortunate in having a pro- 
tectress like you, but — ” 

” But 1 am too old to be her friend; 1 am twenty-six and she is 
twenty; too old and too— what shall 1 say — frivolous?” 

“You take pleasure in mocking me.” 

“ On the contrary, 1 am speaking very seriously, and if you will 
listen to me a minute, you will be convinced of it. When i learned 
from Madame Fresnay that Monsieur Saulieu had been killed, my 
first thought was for you. 1 knew how intimate you were, 1 pitied 
you with all my heart, and 1 longed to console you: do not misuu- 
destrand what 1 say, but 1 am only a woman and can not replace the 
friends you have lost. 1 thought then of Maurice’s of that 

poor child who was left alone with an infirm mother and no other 
protector than an aunt, whom, 1 confess, 1 should not trust to have 
charge of a young giil in society.” 

“ Madame Fresnay! an idiot and perhaps worse than that. It was 
she who caused all the trouble by her chattering, and her behavior 
is revolting. She should have been with her niece, instead of going 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 6^ 

to talk over the tashlons with her dress- maker. You are a thousand 
times right. Mademoiselle Mezenc is in very bad hands.” 

“Y^ou are not astonished, then, that 1 wish to take her out of 
them.” 

” The intention is excellent, but I doubt if it can be realized.” 

“ Why not? 1 only know Madame Mezenc a little, but 1 am 
readj'^ to become more intimate with her. She is no longer young, 
and a cruel malady condemns her to remain at home; it is therefore 
my place to make the advances, and 1 shall make them all the more 
willingly, because Madame Mezenc is a distinguished woman in all 
respects.” 

“ Her only fault, 1 think, is being weak.” 

“ As regards her daughter? That is a very excusable weakness. 
Now, 1 want you to tell me why you do not approve of my plan; is 
it because you think Mademoiselle Mezenc would reject it, if you 
should speak to her of it?” 

“ X can not tell, not knowing just what your plan is. But she is 
in a position so difierent from yours — ” 

“ 1 know it, and 1 do not intend to prevent Mademoiselle Mezenc 
from working for her living, since she is resolved to do so; 1 even 
admire her for having taken that resolution. But you have just 
told me that she did not wish to renounce society, and in that, 1 
think again that she is right. Why then should she not come to my 
house, and why should 1 not go to hers? Would you yourself, 
George, cease to come here because you might encounter Made- 
moiselle Mezenc?” 

“No, no, and yet, 1 must tell you something about her. When 
you know it, you can at least act with a knowledge of the case.” 

“ Well?” 

“ In the first place, she squarely declared to me that she had 
never loved Maurice,” 

“ And she would have married him!” 

“ i'es, in deference to her mother’s wishes. The excuse seems 
to you a poor one, does it not? She gave me others, however, which 
you will perhaps consider belter. She says that she had not the 
courage to take away Maurice’s illusion, which he finall}* lost 
though, for he perceived that his -fiancee f tit only friendship for him, 
and it was this sad discovery which impelled him to seek death. 1 
think, for my part, thai she was sincere in what she said, and I am 
sure that hypocrisy is not one of her faults. She is incapable of 
disguising her sentiments, and even carries frankness too far, in my 
opinion.” 


64- 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


“ JWy opinion is that one can never be too frank. And if you have 
only that to reproach her with — " 

“ Pardon me, 1 do not reproach her at all. 1 simply tell you this, 
because 1 think it best that you should know it.” 

” Thank you. But, you have your own opinion in regard to this 
girl ” 

“ Oh! certainly, in what concerns certain phases of her character, 
1 think that she has a will of iron, much pride, too much per- 
haps, for she has already suffered from it and will suffer again; and 
much disinterestedness; lam almost sure that Maurice left her all 
his fortune, and she insists that she will not accept it.” 

” Well, these are qualities of the first order.” 

“ Which may become faults if they are exaggerated. And then, 
1 do not know all; i passed only half an hour with her, and that is not 
enough to study her character; the impression I carried away with 
me from this short interview is that Mademoiselle Mezenc is of an 
extravagant nature, in good as well as in cvih 1 hasten to add that 
1 have not perceived the evil, but 1 repeat, 1 do not know her 
well.” 

” Yon are a man and you understand nothing of the sentiments 
of a young girl. 1 shall know her very quickly.” 

“I hope so, but hnw are you going to introduce her to your 
society, which is not hers? by what title will you patronize her?” 

” That is very simple. In the first place, 1 shall asE her to paint 
tour panels for the summer salon my architect is finishing; flowers 
are her specialty, 1 believe.” 

”1 think so. By the way, 1 am not sure that she has talent; 1 
am even inclined to believe the contrary.” 

“It is enough tor me if she consents. 1 only want a pretext to 
attract her here and to present her to my friends.” 

“ Even to Monsieur dePontaumur?” asked Courtenay, ilonicall3^ 

“ Monsieur de Pontaumur is not my friend, you know it very 
well, and it is unkind of you to speak in that way. But 1 forgive 
you, because you have, without meaning to, given me the pretext 
1 sought to get rid of that person whom you do not like, nor 1 
either for that matter. No one will be. astonished if 1 deprive my- 
self of his visits, when 1 have in my house Mademoiselle Mezenc, 
who was to have been the wife of Monsieur Saulieu.” 

“ You would do that?” 

“ How can you doubt it? Do you think that 1 could impose on 
that young girl the presence of a man who has killed her fiancee, 
and who, moreover, has slandered her?” 


THE COXSEQUEHCES OE A. DUEL. 


65 


: Then 1 hope that she will accept your offer. 1 even hope that 

I you will succeed in marrying her advantageously. 
i “ i hope so too. ” 

; “It will be more difficult than you think.*' 

I “ Because she has no dowry? Is that a reason why she should 
' not find a husband? There are still in Paris men who do not care 
I lor money and who have enough for two. A^ou yourself, my dear 
I George, would not hesitate to marry a woman as poor as Job, if 
y^ou loved her.” 

j “ I, possibly. But 1 am an exception. And then the difficulty 
I would come from Mademoiselle Mezenc. She is strangely sensitive 
! on that point ; she does not wish to he married out of charity.” 

! “ Then only the rich could marry. It is not possible that she 

spoke seriously, if she used that expression.” 

“ She did not use it, but it expresses very well what she thinks. 

■ She considers that poverty condemns her to remain unmarried, under 
, penalty of exposing herself to new misfortunes. She was slandered 
I because she was poor, and it has caused Maurice's death.” 

“ She is mistaken if she thinks that wealth preserves one from 
unhappiness,” murmured Mme. Brehal. “ People envy my lot, 

' and if they could know—” 

“ What?” said Courtenay, smiling. “ I/Vith your fortune in order 
' to be unhappy you must have love troubles, and up to the present — ” 

” 1 have not had them. Such is your opinion, and if I should 
contradict you you would smile perhaps. J assure you, monsieur, 
if 1 had love troubles 1 should not select you tor a confidant. But, 
admitting that 1 am free from them, do you count tor nothing the 
unhappiness of doubting the sincerity of all the declarations made 
to me?” added Mme. Brehal, gayly. 

“ Why should you doubt them?” asked George, surprised at this 
sudden change in a conversation which had as a subject only Mile. 
Mezenc. 

“ Because 1 have a fine house and two hundred thousand francs 
a year, my friend. AVhenever any one has told me he loved me 1 
have never been able to believe that it was for myself alone. This 
is a punishment which poor girls do not know. They are not loved 
for what they possess.” 

“ 1 do not doubt but that you have met men who wished only 
your fortune. Is it to be concluded, on that account, that you 
never inspire a real sentiment?” 

“ 1 fear so.” 

“ Bo you know that, if you really lack faith on that point, it 

3 


66 


THE COJTSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


would discourage a good tellow who should honestly fall in love 
with you? I know those who would never avow it, for fear of 
being misunderstood/’ 

“\oudo? Really?” 

” 1 know at least one,” responded George, drawing a little nearer. 

” You, my friend? Yes, 1 think that if you loved me you would 
be silent through excess of delicacy. But you do not love me.” 

” How do you know?” 

A moment more and George would have been kneeling at her 
feet, perhaps without really meaning to, but the sound ot a footfall 
caused him to recover his equilibrium and prevented Mme. Brehal 
from answering him. 

The footman, who had ushered him in, appeared on the threshold 
of the little salon, and for this footman to have appeared without 
being summoned it was necessary that some unlooked-for incident 
had obliged him to, for Mme. Brehal had expressly declared that 
She was at home to no one. 

George had immediately assumed the ordinary attitude ot a caller, 
and doubtless he was not sorry of an interruption which came just 
in time to stop him at the moment he was about to yield to a ridicu- 
lous impulse. 

Mme. Brehal did not jjrobably share George’s ideas, for she cast a 
severe look at the domestic who had permitted himself to interrupt 
the tete-d-tete at the most interesting moment. 

” What is it?” she asked. ” 1 have given my orders.” 

” Pardon me, maaarae, but a gentleman is below — ” 

” Well, why did you not tell him that 1 was not receiving?” 

** The gentleman desires to speak to Monsieur Courtenay.” 

” To me?” exclaimed George. ” What does that mean?” 

” He sent up his card to monsieur,” said the footman, advancing 
with a silver salver in his hand. 

George took the card, read the name which it bore, and made a 
gesture of surprise. 

” Ask the gentleman to wait,” he said. 

” No bad news, 1 hope?” said Mme. Brehal, as soon as the serv- 
ant had disappeared. 

” No, no. One of my friends, whom 1 waited for at my house 
till nine o’clock. 

” And who guessed that you were here,” added the lady with a 
smile. ” That does honor to his perspicacity.” 

” He must have insisted on seeing me and was told that he would 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 67 

find me at your house. My valet knew that 1 was to be here, be- 
cause you gave your message to h m this afternoon.*^ 

“ And, naturally, you did not command him to be silent, for you 
d(» not conceal coming to see me any more than 1 conceal receiving 
you. You did not foresee that one of my people, in announcing tiie 
arrival of your friend, would interrupt the beginning of a sentence 
whicli presaged a declaration.” 

“ Confess that it was well it happened as it did, and that you pro- 
voked the declaration a little, 1 was about to thrust my head into 
the trap for you to laugh at me.” 

‘ Laugh ‘at you! 1 assure jmu, 1 should take no pleasure in 
doing that. We were speaking of serious things, and 1 don’t know 
how we came to discourse about love as we are neither of us in love 
with the other. There are days when these things are in the air, 
but we must never begin again.” 

” 1 shall not proodse that.” 

” Ko, no. Kever. We must not play with fire, and if yours 
should be rekindled I could not restrain you.” 

” Say rather that you would send me away.” 

” Not at all. 1 would much prifer to keep you, for we do not 
agree, and 1 would, like to convert you to my ideas. But your 
friend is wailing, and if he has taken the trouble to make the jour- 
ney to the Avenue de Villiers, he doubtless has important news to 
tell you.” 

” My friend is Doctor Coulanges, who was Maurice’s second with 
me, and whom 1 left at Sainf-Ouen to appear before the coroner’s 
jury. 1 think he ought not to have followed me here, unless he 
comes to tell me of danger.” 

” vvhat! you are exposed—” 

” To being arrested. Yes, and the prospect does not alarm me 
much, as we have notldng to reproach ourselves with. Well, if it 
happens, 1 shall be consoled by thinking that that miserable Pontau- 
mur will be the chief prisoner.” 

” Whatever occurs,” said Mme. Brehal, quickly, ” I promise you 
that j'ou sliall not meet him in my house. 1 shall see Mademoiselle 
Mezenc to morrow and do my utmost to persuade her to work here. 
Her presence will protect me from the visits of a man wdio has be- 
come odious to me since he has killed your friend. When shall 1 
see you?” 

” When 1 have finished with the painful duties 1 must perform. 
Maurice Saulieu had no relatives in Paris, and 1 shall have to act 
for his family.” 


68 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


“ How 1 pity you! and how 1 wish 1 could share your sad task. 
But 1 am only a woman, and women are of no account in the great 
trials of life. Go, my dear George, and believe that I shall not 
cease to think of you for an instant during these sad days.** 

Courtenay kissed the hand which Mme. Brehal extended to him, 
and left her with no further word. 

He was not sorry to go. The air in that perfumed retreat intoxi« 
cated him. He had lost the just appreciation of things, and he 
wished to recover it. 

He departed troubled and discontented with himself, almost a& 
when he had left Marianne Mezenc’s studio. 

“Is it fated, then,” he thought as he crossed the la^ge salon, 
“ that 1 shall forget Maurice’s death to listen to peculiar lamenta- 
tions and equivocal expressions of faith? One announces tome des- 
perate resolutions, while declaring that she never loved her 
and hinting that her heart was given — elsewhere. The other amuses 
herself with enlarging upon the inconveniences of wealth consid- 
ered in its relations with lovers and nearly succeeds in bringing me 
gently to her feet. And again, with that girl, it 1 cut short her con- 
fidences, it was because 1 felt an emotion which was not caused by 
poor Maurice’s death. Twice in the same day, it is too much. 1 
am ashamed of myself. Fortunately, the doctor is here. A talk 
with him will cure me. But what the deuce can he have to say to 
me in such a hurry?’* 

The footman was waiting at the top of the marble staircase, and 
preceded M. Courtenay to the vestibule. Coulanges was not there, 
and George learned that, after sending up his card, he had re- 
entered the cab in which he came. 

The coupe was before the door, and when George went out he saw 
that perhaps out of deference for such an aristocratic equipage the 
driver of the cab had stationed himself twenty feet off. 

He could not see Coulanges, and, thinking that he would find him 
sitting inside the cab, he signed to his coachman to stay where he 
was, and, lighting a cigar, walked down the street. 

^nere was no one in the cab. He could easily assure himself of 
this, as the door was open. 

“ The gentleman got out,” said the man on the box. 

“Ah! and where has be gone?” asked Courtenay, surprised. 

“ To walk along the fortifications. 1 saw him turn me corner below 
there. Oh! he can not be far; it isn’t five minutes since he left 
the cab.” 

“What is the matter with him?” growled George. “ Is he go- 


69 


THE COHSEQUEKCES* OF A , DUEL. 

\ 

ing back to Saint-Ouen on foot; I have a grearmincl to call him; 
no, in this quiet place my voice would attract ail the servants in the 
house; they would think that 1 was calling for help. 1 will go and 
see what has become of him; that is the quickest and surest way.” 

The property acquired by theiateM. Brehal was bounded by the 
three sides of a triangle formed by the Avenue de Villiers, the con- 
tinuation of the Hue de Courcelles, and the Boulevard Berthier, 
which runs along b}’’ the fortifications. The hotel faced on the 
avenue; the garden extended to the Boulevard, and the grounds 
which completed the property were on the Rue de Courcelles. From 
the entrance to the hotel commenced a high walJ, above which 
could be seen the trees of the park which surrounded the house. 

Courtenay had always come in a carriage to see Mme. Brehal, and 
had never been further down the avenue than the entrance to the 
house. On setting out to meet his friend Coulanges, he was, there- 
fore, going to venture into unknown regions, but he supposed that 
the fanciful doctor had not gone far, and he did not think in the 
least of the unpleasant encounters to which one is exposed when he 
walks at night in unfrequented parts of Paris. Besides, it was not 
very late, and the toll-house was within reach of his voice, without 
speaking of the two coachmen sitting on their boxes. 

He advanced to the angle of the wall, gave a glance to the right, 
and saw no one. The Boulevard Berthier was deserted, there was 
no doubt of that, for the gas-jets gave enough light to see. 

” Where can he be?” wondered George, who was beginning to 
be uneasy. ” 1 must find out and make my mind easy.” And he 
walked down the Boulevard, keeping close to the wall. 

At his left, rose the banks of the fortifications, and a little fur- 
ther on Vas a mound of earth. When he reached the top of this 
eminence, he paused to look about him, and it seemed to him that 
there was a man seated at the fool of the artificial hill. 

There is nothing alarming in a man seated ai the foot of a mound, 
near the fortifications, between ten and eleven o’clock in the even- 
ing, nor even astonishing, for these distant places are frequented 
enough at night by people who belong to the lower classes, and no- 
tably by drunkards, who come there to sleep oft the wine absorbed 
in the taverns around about. 

But the man was not asleep. He was watching, and when he saw 
George appear, he rose suddenly. At this motion, George backed 
up against the wall and prepared to defend himself against an at- 
tack. 

He was very much surprised to see that the man, instead of ad- 


70 THE CONSE(^UE]SrCES OF A DUEL. 

vaucin.^, made }i^m a sign to approach, and the idea came to him 
that this star gazei might be the doctor he was seeking. It was his 
figure and dress, so far as the light from the street-lamp, twenty leet 
oft, allowed him to judge. 

. George, who never hesitated, deliberately crossed the street, and, 
as he reached the opposite sidewalk, he saw that it was indeed Cou- 
langes. 

“ What the devil are you doing there?” he called out to him; 
“ and what are you gesticulating like that for?” 

‘‘ Not so loud, not so loud!” responded the doctor. ” And come 
at once; 1 want to speak to you.” 

George, more and more puzzled, quickened his steps, and, in a 
few seconds, joined Coulanges, who seized him Dy the arin and drew 
him into the shadow of the hilbck. 

” Well, will you explain?” 

” It ivas to explain that 1 drew you here,” whispered the doctor. 
” Here we can not he seen, and we can talk without any one hear- 
ing us.” 

” But who would hear us? There is no one here.” 

” Now, no; and yet 1 don’t know, a man with good ears might. 
Besides, this one may reappear any moment.” 

” 1 understand less and less.” 

‘‘ Let me tell you what has happened; my story will perhaps be 
interrupted, but — ” 

“Go on, will you? You drive me crazy with your preambles. 
Who are you w’^atching here? Tell me at once.” 

“ ]f 1 should tell you point-blank, you would not believe me, or, 
at least, you wmuld think it improbable, and would interrupt me to 
ask questions, and 1 should have to go back to the beginning; so 1 
prefer to beirin at the beginning; but, first, let me place myself so as 
not to lose sight of that inclosure on the other side of the Boule- 
vard.” 

“Good! the mystery is behind the wall, it seems,” muttered 
Courtenay, 

“ jVIy dear fellow,” said Coulanges, with his back against the em- 
bankment, “ you must not think that I came here without a reason. 

I sent you a dispatch to ask you—” 

“To wait for you. 1 received it, but 1 was obliged to go out at 
nine o’clock. Madame Brehal Lad taken the trouble to stop at my 
house in the afternoon.” 

“ Your valet told me so, and gave me the lady’s address; by the 
way, she lives a little far away. But 1 was very anxious to see yo 


TEE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


n 


this evening; 1 will tell you why presently, so I drove to the end of 
Ihe Avenue de Villiers, and, at the risk of being indiscreet, I sent 
you my card.” 

” You can tell me nothing that 1 do not know, or have not 
guessed. Go on, doctor, go on.” 

“ Well, as you did not come, after wailing a quarter of an hour 
on the sidewalk, as 1 was tired with running about all the evening 
at Gen ne villiers, i got into the cab to rest my legs. (By the way, I 
left your carriage at the stable.) The groom, who drives your coupe 
this evening, saw me, and 1 supposed that he would tell you where 1 
was.” 

‘‘ It was needless. 1 perceived your carriage, and thought that I 
should find you inside, but you w^ere not there. Then 1 asked your 
driver, and he told me that you had gone to walk in this street.” 

” Not tor my pleasure, I asture you. I had been sealed for about 
five minutes upon the by no means soft cushions of my cab, when 
a man passed quite near me.” 

” And you followed the man, 1 suppose. But 1 do not see what 
your motive was in tracking him. Did you know him?” 

‘‘ 1 thought 1 recognized him.” 

” Well, you had only to call to him, and you would have known 
at once.” 

” 1 took care not to do that, for reasons you will understand, 
when 1 have told you all. Let me finish. 1 would like, before 
giving 5^011 the key to this mystery, to ask 5 mu what you think of 
the duel and what has followed since?” 

‘‘Doctor, you are insupportable. However, we have both lime 
to lose. My call is made, and you, 1 suppose, do not rtturn to 
Gennevilliers this evening?” 

‘‘ Oh, no! 1 have had enough of that; and yet, all is not finished 
mere yet, but no m.atter. 1 told you that this individual attracted 
my attention; I saw him stop at the corner of the avenue, and looK 
back, evidently to make sure that he was not followed, and then 
turn to the right. Then I wished to know where he was going.” 

” That idea would not have occurred to me.” 

‘‘Perhaps. Wait, before giving an opinion. 1 got out and ad- 
vanced to the corner of the wall; from there, 1 could, without being 
seen, watch the movements of the gentleman.” 

” It was a gentleman, then?” asked Courtenay, ironically. 

” Do you think that 1 should have amused myself with watching 
a tramp? I have nothing to do with such people.” 

'‘lam sure of it. Well, what did your gentleman do?” 


72 


THE COHSEQUEK^CES OF A DUEL.^ 

“ He walked on about a hundred feet, and then disappeared.” 

“ Ln a trap, like an imp in a pantomime?” 

JNo, in the wall.” 

” You are certainly making fun of me!” 

” Pardon me; 1 forgot to tell you that there is a door. Look, 
you can see it from here.” 

“ i only see a fence which joins the garden wall.” 

” Look more carefully, and you will see that at the place where 
it commenced, there is a sort of a recess. The entrance is there.” 

” The entrance to what?” 

” I must ask you that; for 1 have never been here before, while 
you, being intimate with Madame Brehal, must know the surround- 
ings of her hotel.” 

” 1 know tliat the garden is surrounded by walls, and beyond are 
grounds which she has never wished to sell for fear somebody 
would build there.” 

” And these grounds are simply inclosed by a plank fence, high 
enough and well put together. It is impossible to see what there 
is on the other side.” 

” There is nothing at all, not even potatoes. The land is uncul- 
tivated.” 

“Good! But the question is: Is there, behind that fence, any 
communication between this uncultivated land and the garden?” 

” 1 remember vaguely having perceived, in strolling about the 
walks, an old door which should have been condemned a long time 
ago, for it is almost hidden by clusters of ivy. But what is the 
meaning of all these questions, please?” 

” The other door, the one 1 have pointed out to you, gives access 
only into the field. The first planks of the fence form a sort of 
gate, which opens by means of a key. 1 have been there and felt 
the lock.” 

” And this man had the key?” 

” Exactly. He took it out of his pocket, used it, entered and 
locked the gate behind him. ’’ 

” But this is a story of thieves you are telling me.” 

” Pardon me; you just told me there was nothing to steal there, 
not even vegetables.” 

” That is true.” 

” Might it not be supposed that, from the field, the man entered 
the garden by that apparently condemned door?” 

“The devil! If I believed that, 1 should immediately go and 
warn Madame Brehal’s domestics. When one takes roundabout 


THE COHSEQUEITCES OF A DUEL. 73 

ways he has no good intentions. After all, what are we doing here 
instead of giving the alarm?” 

“lam waiting for this singular visitor to come out.” 

“And when he comes out, what will you do? It is a hundred 
times belter to capture him in the act of theft. e need not both of 
us remain here, at all events. Continue to mount guard here, and 1 
will give the alarm to the people of the hotel. 1 will place myself 
at their head, and we will hunt for this rascal; if he comes out on 
the boulevard you can call, and besides, 1 will send you re-enforce- 
ments.” 

“ My dear fellow, 1 beg you to reflect before putting so many 
people cn the track.” 

“ I have reflected.” 

“ i^et— if this man were not a thief. If he were—” 

“What?” 

“ Good Heavens! 1 don’t aflirm anything; but, after all, it is not 
only thieves who introduce themselves clandestinely into an inhab- 
ited house. There are also— lovers. ” 

“ Lovers!” repeated Courtenay, completely taken aback. 

“Oh! It may be all right. A woman may receive a gentleman, 
secretly with the best intentions.” 

“ Come, doctor, wnat you say hasn’t common sense and you 
know it very well. A man does not present himself at eleven 
o’clock in the evening with the key of a secret door in his pocket, 
when everything is en regie.** 

“ Unless the man does so without being authorized.” 

“ To have a nearer look at the house where his idol reposes, or to 
play the guitar under her windows. That is improbable.” 

“You suppose, then, that Madame Brehal— ” 

“ 1 suppose that the individual who has entered there is simply 
a thief; 1 have already told you that, and 1 return to my first idea. 
Wait here while I speak to the servants. It will only lake five 
minutes, and 1 will return to aid you if the knave, seeing that the 
alarm is given, tries to escape by that gate, which is more than prob- 
able. ’ 

“ Wait a minute. You v;ill regret having acted with so much 
precipitation.” 

“ Wait for what? Till this scoundrel has pillaged the hotel?” 

“ 1 haven’t told you all.” 

“ Well, tell me all and let me go.” 

“ You forget that.l thought 1 recognized the man.” 

“ True. If you had not thought you recognized him you would 


74 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

not liave followed him. 1 no longer thought of that,” replied Cour- 
tenay, shrugging his shoulders. 

” Well, tell me who it is; you should have begun with that.” 

“My dear fellow, it is so extraordinary—” 

“ WelU 1 expect extraordinary revelations. Come, out with it I 
AVho is it?” 

“ You will not believe me, and yet 1 am sure that 1 was not mis- 
taken. It was Monsieur de Pontaumur.” 

“You are mad!” 

“No, [saw him clearly. He passed quite near my cab and bis 
figure struck me. Anri then, when he turned to see if an}^ one was 
following him, the gaslight from the corner fell full in his face. 1 
was so surprised to see, before Madame Brehal’s hotel, poor Saulieu’s 
adversary, that 1 wished to know where he was going. 1 scarcely 
foresaw the end of the adventure, and 1 begin to believe that 1 was 
WTong to follow him.” 

“The end! the end!” repeated Courtenay, angrily, “1 do not 
understand your end. Pontaumur, admitting that it was Pontau- 
mur, must have continued his way, and it was not he who entered 
this inolosure. You told me that you lost sight of him for a cer- 
tain length of time.” 

“Yes, but he had not time to disappear. He was scarcely fifty 
feet ahead of me. And, besides, where could he have hidden? This 
boulevard is straight as the grand alley of the garden of the Tuiler- 
ies, and on the other side of the fortifications there is a ditch. Y"ou 
don’t suppose that he jumped in there.” 

“ And this hillock near which 1 found you?” 

“ 1 went around it before sitting down, and 1 can answer for it that 
there was no one benind it. Besides, 1 observed the man while he 
was opening the gate, and 1 am certain it was the same who, a mo- 
ment before, walked up the Avenue de Villiers.” 

“ And your conclusion is?” 

“ That the man is not a thief. Monsieur de Pontaumur is rich, 
or at least is supposed to be; and even if he were not, he would not 
practice theft under such circumstances as these, by breaking alone, 
so early, into an inhabited house.” 

“ You think then, that he is Madame Brehal’s lover?” asked 
Courtenay, quickly. 

“ My deal fellow, i think nothing at all. 1 do not know the lady. 

1 have never heard anything evil of her, and I am ignorant if she 
knows Monsieur de Pontaumur. Y^ou do know hex and are much 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 75 

better able lo judge than 1. For my part, 1 declare that I do not 
believe it possible. Are you not ot my opinion?” 

‘‘ 1 agree with you so absolutely that 1 am going to the hotel to 
give the alarm. If it is Monsieur de Pontaumur who entered, we 
shall see him. And I should not be sorry if it were he. It would 
be an excellent opportunity to treat him as he deserves.” 

Courtenay made a step forward, but the doctor detained him. 

” Take care,” he said, gently. ” This man, if he is captured, 
will have to explain what he came there for. And who knows 
what he will invent to justify his conduct? He may slander Madame 
Brebal.” 

Courtenay started. He knew of what M. de Pontaumur was 
capable. 

“And even if he should say nothing,” continued the doctor, 
“ the servants will never believe that a gentleman, dressed like he 
is, came to steal.” 

“ They can believe what they like; it is none of my business, and 
1 -” 

“ It seems to me that Madame Brehal will scarcely thank you for 
exposing her to the commentaries of her people. The more inno- 
cent she is the more she will desire lo avoid scandal. And, more- 
over, permit me to say, that you have no right to interfere in so deli- 
cate an affair. You are no relation of bers.” 

“ 1 am her friend and nothing more, but that is quite enough.” 

“ No, it is not enough, my dear Courtenay. I am very disinter 
esled m this matter since 1 have not the honor of Madame Biehal’s 
acquaintance. 1 can therefore examine all sides coldly, and—” 

“Oh! d-nyour leasoning! A man has entered her house. I 
wish lo know why. It this man is Monsieur de Pontaumur, there 
is all the more reason for clearing up the matter.” 

“ By clearing it up, as you call it, you may do exactly what he 
desires. 1 have the worst opinion of him, and I should not be at 
all surprised if he sought to compromise Madame Brehal. If you 
do what you intend, you will aid him.” 

Courtenay did not answer; he. felt the wisdom of these words. 

“ He would have his part all prepared,” continued the doctor. 
“ He would absolutely refuse to answer those who questioned him, 
you as well as others, and he would be delighted to be taken before 
the commissary of police, for the commissary, knowing who he is, 
would never believe him to be a malefactor. He would take him 
for a man of honor who sacrifices himself to save a woman’s repu- 
tation. And everybody else would share the commissary’s opinion.” 


76 


THE co:kseque:nces of a duel. 


“ Very well!’* cried Courtenay in a rage. “ But he shall answer 
to me, to me!” 

“ A duel! That would be even worse. A duel about Madame 
Brehal! lou can not dream of it. It would only compromise her 
all the more. And, beMes, Pontaumur has just fought, he has 
killed your friend, he would almost have the right to refuse another 
encounter; a man does not go upon the duel ground two days in 
succession. Everybody would say you were wrong, and what would 
be much worse, Madame Brehal would never pardon you for drag- 
ging her name into a quarrel.” 

Courtenay trembled with anger. He was at the end of his argu- 
ments. 

“If he should come out while we are here,” he said between his 
teeth, ” 1 think I should give myself the pleasure of choking him.” 

” Then we had better both go. The role of spy is a villainous one. 
1 allowed myself to be led away by an impulse of curiosity, which 
1 regret; 1 saw him enter a gate which opens into a waste place. 
Nothing proves that from this place he could penetrate into Madame 
Brehal’s garden. The contrary is indeed very probable.” 

” So be it! But what is he doing in that deserted inclosure?” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know, and 1 don’t wish to know. There is a mystery 
here, the explanation of which we shall certainly not have this even- 
ing, but which it will depend only on yourself to discover later.” 

” How so?” 

*' Vou go otten to see Madame Brehal. Why should not you tell 
her quite simply what we have seen? Or, if you fear to wound her, 
you can always arrive at your end by circuitous means. What 
would prevent you, for instance, from visiting the garden and 
making sure that the door of communication has not been opened. 
Nothing would be easier, if, as you say, this door is covered with 
ivy branches. You can see, at a glance, if they have been broken 
or disturbed.” 

Courtenay was silent. Tne doctor’s logic had finally converted 
him to wiser ideas. And yet he did not cease to regard the fence 
behind which Pontaumur had disappeared. 

” Come,” continued Coulanges, taking his arm, ” be a man, old 
fellow. You do not doubt my discretion, 1 hope. All this shall 
remain between ourselves. But let us go, I beg. If we continue 
to mount guard before this fence, we shall end by laughing in one 
another’s faces, tor we shall see that we are ridiculous. Remember, 
besides, what we have to do to-morow at Saint-Ouen and at Paris, 
and dx) me the kindness to take me home, without more delay. 1 


THE COKSEQUBNCES OF A DUEL. 


77 


am going to send aVay my cab and enter your coupL I have still 
to tell you of what took place at Saint-Ouen after your departure.” 

Courtenay allowed himself to be led away, bu^he determined not 
to let the matter rest there, and while obediently accompanying the 
doctor, he thought: 

“ Either Pontaumur is the worst of villains, or Madame Brehal is 
a monster of hypocrisy. 1 must, at all costs, know the truth.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Dr. Coulanges had not a house of his own, like his friend 
Courtenay and Mme. Brehal, the fair chatelaine of the Avenue de 
Villiers. 

He occupied, in a fine new house in the Rue de Chateaudun, a 
pretty apartment on the fourth fioor, with a balcony, from which 
there was a superb view. 

This doctor in partibus was a philosopher, and a practical philoso- 
pher, for he had arranged his life according to his tastes, and his 
tastes were not superior to his fortune. He liked all Parisian pleas- 
ures, and he deprived himself of nothing, that is, in moderation. 
He cared little for society; he made modest wagers on the races and 
he played only whist. His household consisted of a woman of a 
certain age to cook his breakfasts— he was an epicure — and a valet 
of fifty to open his door and do his errands. He kept rro carriage, 
of course, nor even a park hack, although he rode quite well and 
was something of a connoisseur in horses. Neither did he ruin 
himself in objects of art, for he only appreciated bargains patiently 
sought for, and he did not cover with gold the pictures and old 
furniture he bought at the auction-rooms. He almost always ob- 
tained more than his money’s worth, and he could have sold his 
little collection at a large profit. 

Coulanges could have cut a dash, like many others, if he had 
wished, but he was of an opinion that fixed expenses procure only 
moderate pleasure, and that it was the part of wisdom to keep as 
much money as possible for unexpected fancies. But what he 
valued above all, was tranquillity of mind, and this tranquillity, 
which was so dear to him, had been very much disturbed of late. 

Three weeks had passed since the duel, and he was beginning to 
take up again his epicurean habits, but he had been obliged to sub- 
mit to many tribulations. 

Maurice Saulieu’s death had imposed upon George a mass of 


78 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 


duties of which the good doctor had taken his share; and to com- 
plete his annoyance, they had been obliged to appear betore a magis- 
trate. The surviving piincipal and the seconds of an encounter, 
which had had such u fatal issue, narrowly escaped being remanded 
for a trial. But, at last, all was ended. They had been dismissed by 
the magistrate, Maurice reposed in the cemetery of Montmartre, and 
the exc tement occasioned by the tragic event had died away. 

In Paris things are quickly forgotten. At tiie club which the 
actors of the drama of Gennevilliers frequented, they already scarce- 
ly spoke of the unfortunate aflair which had been for a week the 
subject of all conversations. M. de Pontaumur did not put in an 
appearance at this club where he had been struck, and his supporter, 
M. Corleon, showed himself only at the hours when baccarat was 
played. So Coulanges, who liked the place well enough, could go 
there without being annoyed by the sight of the two men he disliked 
so heartily. 

Courtenay, after having drawn largely on his friend’s good nature, 
demanded nothing more of him; he must have been absorbed by 
his own private cares, for no one saw' him any more. Coulanges 
had met him scarcely two or three times since the funeral of their 
unfortunate comrade. It must be said, however, that Coulanges 
did not seek him. He thought that George must be preoccupied 
with what had happened the evening of the duel upon the Boule- 
vard Berlhier, and he had no desire to give him fresh advice. It 
was enough that he had prevented him from committing a foil}'. 
His friend’s affairs of the heart were not his, and he suspected that 
Courtenay was not indifferent to Mme. Brehal. He had not even 
deemed it proper to inquire about the young girl whom Saulieu was 
to have married. He did not know her and he did not desire to, 
any more than he desired to know how Saulieu had left his property. 
George, without entering into explanations in regard to the contents 
of the pocket-book, bad told him that it contained no will, and he 
had asked nothing more. 

Delivered from the cares which had worried him, the doctor 
might, therefore, have been as peaceably happy as ever, and yet he 
had not recovered that serenity of which he was so proud, that 
cheerfulness which washissiiong point, and which Rabelais, his 
favorite author, calls Pantagruelism. 

The doctor was tormented by a sort of remorse. He reproached 
himself for not having told ail to the magistrate. He had spoken 
to no one, not even to George, of the bullet he had picked up on 


THE COHSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 79 

the duel ground; and he knew, that if he had shown it, things 
might ha\’e been materially changed. 

He had preserved thft wretched ball and carefully locked it up in 
fi drawer of his secretary,. but this precaution was a useless one, as 
he abstained from undertaking, as at first had been his intention, a 
personal investigation into the acts ot Pontaumur and his acolyte, be- 
fore and after the duel. He said to himseli that this discovery proved 
^ibsolutely nothing, that the false ballet had not come from Maurice’s 
pistol, since Corleon could not have introduced it there, and that, 
besides, he had offered to draw the weapons by lot. He said to 
himself that the ball had, perhaps, fallen there on another occasion, 
for this was probably not the first time people had fought with pis- 
tols in the redoubt of Gennevilliers. He finally argued that it was 
no longer the time to make use of the article, the authenticity of 
which would appear doubtful to everybody. This reasoning did 
not, however, completely satisfy his conscience, and he tried, with- 
out succeeding, to think no more of the problem which haunted 
him. 

He had the box of pistols; he had paid for them, and he had the 
right to keep them. But this box recalled to him unceasingly a 
memory which he \Vished to chase away, and the idea came to him 
one day of returning it to the gunmaker who had sold it to him. 

On this particular day he had been breakfasting with a young 
person who proposed to make her dehut soon upon the stage of' a 
third-class theater, and who came to consult him when she had any 
trouble with her throat. 

The amiable doctor’s specialty was affections of the larynx, and 
this is a specialty which procures for a physician entrance behind 
the sc( nes of theaters, where operettas are sung, and assures him a 
practice among pretty women. Coulanges prescribed for them 
gratis and generally treated them to champagne. 

Helphine Grabas, better known under the name of Mme. du 
Rainey, was one of his patients, and on the least excuse, she hast- 
ened to her dear Coulanges. 

She was singing an air from the “ Petite Mariee,” accompanying 
herself upon the piano at the end of a salon where the doctor loved 
to smoke and regard his beloved bric-a-brac. 

This room was a little museum, but he had left, upon a table, the 
offensive box of pistols, and it annoyed him to such a point that he 
would have willingly thrown it out of the window. He Intended, 
however, to get rid of it by a less radical means; and while list3n* 


80 


THE COiq’SEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


ing absently *to tbe vocalization of his young friend, he arranged in 
his head his programme tor the day. 

There was to be a sale of pictures, which interested him, at the 
I16tel Drouot. He decided that he would go there, and first stop at 
Gal and ’s to ask him to take Dack the box of pistols at any price he 
wished. 

Upon this wise resolution, he left Mile. Delphine to her operet- 
ta and went to dress. He proposed to go, after the sale, to the 
riding school, and then to dine at the club, where he had not been 
for two days. 

His toilet was quickly made, and he returned to the salon to dis- 
miss his singer, who had a rehearsal at two o’clock. She had not 
told him so, but Coulanges knew her way of pretending that rehears- 
als and music lessons took up a great part of her time. He did not 
believe a single word of it, but it pleased him to aftect to believe it,, 
so that he should not have to devote his afternoon to her. 

When he re-entered the room, she had quitted the piano and was 
busily engaged in examining the objects which littered the table 
and mantel-piece. He was accustomed to her familiar ways and he 
allowed them, but this time they made him angry and he knew 
why, for she had opened the pistol-case and was playing with one 
of the pistols. 

“ "What are you doing?” he exclaimed, brusquely. “ Those toys 
were not made lor little girls.” And he snatched it away from her. 

“Oh! the brute!” cried Delphine. “He has hurt me! Look! 
you have drawn the blood,” she added, showing the palm of her 
hand. 

Coulanges was quick, but he was tender-hearted, and the suffer- 
ings of women always moved him. He placed the pistol upon the 
table, and, before examining the scratch, he commenced by gallant- 
ly kissing the injured hand. This had the effect of immediately 
calming the young lady, and she said: ” 1 shall not die of it; but 
you might have been a little more gentle.” 

” 1 was wrong, my dear, and 1 ask your pardon. But 1 don’t 
like to see you play with firearms; one never knows whether they 
are loaded or not. And then, how the deuce could 1 foresee that 1 
was going to hurt you? Let me see this terrible wound.” 

” Tou are laughing at me, you heartless fellow.” 

‘‘No, indeed! 1 shall not be obliged to amputate your pretty 
liand, but 1 must have hurt you very much. The skin is broken.’^ 

“Oh! of course it is. 1 am sure that 1 shall be maiked for life.” 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 81 

“ ITl be bangea if I see bow the rubbing of the palm of your 
hand against a smooth surface could break the skin/’ 

“ In the first place, monsieur, you ought to know that my skin is 
very delicate. And then, you can talk as much as you please about 
your smooth surface, 1 am certain that it was a nail which scratched 
me.” 

“ A nail!” repeated CouJanges. “You are dreaming, my dear. 
There are no nails in the butt-end of a pistol.” 

“ A nail or a pin or whatever you like. But it was soinething 
pointed. Look and see.” 

The doctor took the weapon and examined it. To his great amaze- 
ment, he discovered near the butt of the pistol the head of a small 
screw which jutted out a little from the wood. 

It was certainly not the maker who had put it there, for it served 
absolutely no purpose except to annoy the one who should fire it. 
The idea came to Coulanges that Saulieu had had the disadvantage 
of using the weapon, but he soon lellected that Saulieu would have 
perceived the screw, and would not have failed to call his second’s 
attention to the suspicious circumstance. Then he recalled sud- 
denly that Corleon had proposed to draw the pistols by lot from 
under a handkerchief, and he began to understand. 

“ Yes,” he thought, “ that fine gentleman would have thrown a 
coin into the air, and if Fontaumur had cried tails, he would have 
arranged to have it fall tails; Pontaumur would have had the choice 
and he would have taken the good one, the one 1 loaded with a real 
ball, for he knew that this one was marked and would have recog- 
nized it by the touch. Decidedly, it is no longer possible to doubt 
the dishonesty of Maurice’s adversary, and George’s friend died as- 
sassinated.” 

“ Well, what do you say?” asked Delphine, wiping the wound 
with a fine cambric handkerchief. “ Will you still maintain that 
one can not be scratched by handling a pistol ? If 1 were a man, and 
a gunmaker should sell me such a poorly made weapon, 1 would 
make him give me back my money.” 

Coulanges was scarcely listening. He was examining the other 
pistol, and found it to be intact. How could this strange disparity 
be the fault of the gunmaker? He thought for a moment of ques- 
tioning him, but that would be a gross imprudence; the duel and 
its fatal denouement were known to everybody ; the man would not 
fail to wonder who had driven in this suspicious screw and he would 
not keep the secret. The rumor would spread that criminal trickery 
had been practiced by one of the seconds and public indignation 


82 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

would be roused. It would be necessary to show that the box had 
not passed into the doctoi’^s hands until after the duel, and, it Cor- 
leon should deny this, as he was capable of doing, it would be diffi- 
cult to prove it. The investigation would probably be reopened, 
and, in any case, Coulangesand his friend Courtenay would be sus- 
pected. It was better to keep silent than to run such a risk, and 
Coulanges promptly decided to do so. As he had begun by being 
leticent, he could not depart from it, under penalty of being com- 
promised, and it his conscience told him that he was wrong not to 
act, his temperament accommodated itself very easily to inactivity, 
or at least to expectation, for he still flattered himselt that the truth 
would be discovered without his proclaiming it. 113 tried to per- 
suade himself that Providence would intervene one day or another. 

“ To think that 1 loaded it^ and perceived nothing,” he thought, 
closing the box. 

” What are you thinking of, you love of a doctor?” asked Del- 
phine, laughing. Is it my accident that makes you melancholy? 
1 assure you that 1 am not in the least angry, and to show you that 
1 forgive you, 1 am going to devote my day to you. We will take 
a drive in the Bois, dine in the Champs-Elysees, and in the evening 
you shall take me to an open-air concert.” 

” lou don’t reliearse to-day, then?” 

” Yes, there is a rehearsal, but 1 shall sacrifice the dramatic art 
to you. 1 shall be fined, but 1 don’t care; besides, you will pay the 
fine.” 

” With pleasure; but— 1 am engaged. 1 dine this evening in the 
city, and now 1 must go to the Rue Drouot to see if 1 can pick up 
a picture 1 want at a fair price.” 

” A sale! that suits me. You can give me a China vase or a 
Japanese idol with big enameled eyes, I adore those, or if you find 
that is too dear, something else, 1 don’t care what; you owe me 
something for hurting me with your miserable pistol. 1 sha’n’t be 
able to play a note tor a week.” 

” 1 hope that you are not going to tell at the theater that you were 
hurt at my house,” said Coulanges, who feared her chattering. 

” No, not if you take me to the auction. You have no idea how 
it amuses me to hear the hammer. Oh! 1 sha’n’t bother 3 mu. When 
1 have my little present, 1 will take it home and leave you to bid 
for your picture.” 

“Pardon me, 1—” 

“Not a word more, doctor, or you will lose me for a patient. 
The next time my throat pains me,l shall consult another physician.” 


THJE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 83 

“ That threat decides me,” said Coulanges, gayly. “ Bui hurry. 
It is past two o’clock. The sale has begun, and 1 do not wish the 
Clouet ot my dreams to be knocked down without me — a jewel of 
a portrait, which ought to be in the Louvre, and which 1 shall ob- 
tain, perhaps, for fifteen louis. The collection is not well known^ 
and the big dealers will not be there.” 

“ 1 will be ready in three seconds. 1 can put on my gloves as 
we go along, not the right one, of course.” 

“ Well, 1 am waiting.” 

Coulanges put away the box of pistols in a desk, premising him- 
self never to touch them again, and led away his patient, who no 
longer complained. 

In the street he hailed a cab, and five minytes afterward, he 
alighted with Delphine, before the door of the H6tel des Ventes. 

The girl was not acquainted with the pla3e, and she was about 
to direct her footsteps towaid the rooms on the ground- floor, where 
are sold the effects ol poor people who have not paid their bills or 
their rent; but Coulanges assured her that she would find there only 
battered chairs and kitchen utensils, and not the least vestige of a 
Japanese idol. He had no difficulty in persuading her to follow him 
to the first floor where objects of art and handsome furniture were 
sold. He even obtained her permission to find out about the Clouet, 
and the man in charge having assured him that the picture would 
not te put up until four o’clock, he led her into the neighboring 
room where the auctioneer was already crying his wares. 

There were pyramids of arm- chairs, cascades of silk curtains, and 
quantities of old oak sideboards, and ebony desks. At the back 
were ranged difiierent kinds of china vases, more or less authentic. 

The doctor saw at a glance that there was piled up here material 
from different sources, and that connoisseurs would not find the 
least bargain; but Delphine could very well find what she sought, 
and he amused himself with praising the merits of two imitation 
Chini'se vases, which probably could be purchased at a modest price. 

“Pooh!” ejaculated his companion; ”1 don’t absolutely desire 
pottery. A pretty little rosewood chiffonier would suit me. or an 
inlaid table. There is room in my salon, too much room, alas! and 
if you are kind, you will let me choose. Oh! 1 will be discreet; 1 
won’t let you spend too much money, but you can at least spare me 
three quarters of an hour of your time.” 

This piospect did not rejoice Coulanges, but he yielded with the 
best grace possible. He even procured a chair for Delphine, and 
stood behind her to aid her with his experience. 


84 


THE COKSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 


The sale dia not progress very rapidly. The people present were 
mostly idlers, and there was no opulent amateur collector in the 
crowd which pressed about the auctioneer and examined the difter- 
cnt objects. 

But as Coulanges glanced over the motley crowd, he perceived, 
close to the auctioneer, M. Corleon. 

There was nothing very surprising in this; M. Corleon had the 
right to come, like any one else, to the Hotel des Yentes; but the 
doctor, who entered the place every day or two, had never ^een 
him there before; and, since the duel, he had not met him anywhere. 

When he perceived the disagreeable face of this shady personage, 
he had almost the same sensation one experiences at treading on a 
reptile, and he wondered why Corleon was there. 

It was probably not to purchase iurniture, for he had been estab- 
lished in Paris for some time, nor was it to purchase objects of art, 
for the sale had absolutely nothing artistic about it. 

Coulanges, after a moment’s reflection, thought that, after all, he 
might very well have come simply to kill time, and to amuse him- 
self with the bustle and movement of the sale. 

It was a common diversion enough, and there are people who 
pass their days at the HOtel Drouot, and never purchase anything; 
only, it is rare that these people take their position in the place re- 
served for serious buyers, who are known, at least by sight, to the 
auctioneers. This was what M. Corleon had done. 

The sale proceeded, and everything went at ridiculously low 
prices. It seemed as if the second-hand dealers were leagued to- 
gether to share, at small expense, the spoils offered to their rapacity. 
Iso one bid against them, for fear of paying tribute to the monopo- 
lizing band, which does not willingly allow any outsider to cut the 
grass from under its feet. 

It must be said, however, that nothing had been offered but old- 
fashioned clocks, faded curtains and horse-hair chairs. There was 
nothing interesting in the spectacle, and M.^Corleon seemed to take 
BO pleasure in it, for he kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

The doctor, also, did not find it exciting, for he leaned over to 
whisper in Delphine’s ear: 

“ This is no fun, and as 1 see nothing which you would like, 1 
advise you to go. We can come again some other time.” 

” No, no,” she replied, quickly, ‘'lam here, and here 1 remain. 
Everything is selling foi nothing. It is a superb opportunity; and 
I have discovered a little piece of furniture which 1 should say, from 
here, would suit me perfectly.” 


THE COI^SEQUEK^CES OF A DUEL. 


85 


Where is it?” 

” Over there, near the big mirror.’' 

Coulanges perceived the object indicated, and an odd-looking 
thing it was. From a distance, it was almost impossible to guess 
its use; it was a massive table, with carved feet, and surmounted 
by a veritable edifice of ebony with drawers above and shelves be- 
low. 

It might serve to keep a woman’s work in, or for a collection of 
medals or books. 

Delphine must have had execrable taste to select this affair, but 
the doctor took care not to disgust her with it, for fear that she 
should take a fancy to something dearer. 

He had even the cowardice to whisper to her: 

“It is very original, indeed. 1 have never seen anything like it, 
and you can boast of possessing something unique. We must find 
out when this ebony curiosity will be put up for sale.” 

“ Go and ask the auctioneer to put it up at once.” 

Coulanges, who was longing to finish the matter, was easily per- 
suaded to use his influence. He had often done so, and he was 
known in the rooms as an amateur. 

Habitues are granted privileges, and he knew it well. But, as he 
was about to step forward, he saw M. Corleon lean over and speak 
to the auctioneer, pointing to some object in the room. 

“Well,” he thought, “ L begin to believe that he has come to 
buy. 1 would like to know what.” 

He had not long to wait. The auctioneer raised his head, and 
said gravely to one of his men: 

“ Place upon the table that ebony chiffonier; yes, that one before 
the mirror. Be quick!” 

“ It seems that it is a chiffonier,” muttered the doctor. “ D— d 
if 1 should have guessed it. Has Monsieur de Pontaumur’s friend 
an idea of purchasing that thing? That would be droll.” 

The men slowly lifted the chiffonier, and planted it upon the long 
table, half a dozen feet from Delphine, who turned to say to Cou- 
langes: 

“It is just what I want. But you must bid. 1 don’t dare to. 
You know how timid 1 am.” 

“No; 1 had never observed it,” laughed the doctor. “But, 
since you wish it, I will take charge of buying it. You understand, 
your choice is made, and you will not regret your Japanese idol?” 

“ Not at all. Go ahead; so much the woise for you, if it costs 
you a thousand francs.” 


86 THE CO^’^SEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

Coulanges smiled. He expected to discharge his obligation with 
fifty. 

“ Gentlemen/" commenced the auctioneer, who was a natural wit, 
“ here, at last, is an object of art, a veritable object of art; a secre- 
tary with drawers and compartments, pure style of the Empire, the 
whole in miissive ebony, and in very good condition."" 

“Hal it is a secretary now,"" chuckled one of Hie dealers. 

“ Let us see, gentlemen, how much for this object of art? An 
old piece of furniture, in as good a condition as if it were new. It 
is worth five hundred francs, if it is worth a sou.’" 

This statement provoked a burst of laughter. 

“ Come, gentlemen, come. Four hundred francs? Three hun* 
dred francs? Some one said two hundred, 1 think."" 

Ko one had breathed a word, 

“A bid, gentlemen!’’ continued the auctioneer. “Madame 
wishes to see the interior? There!’" he added, pulling open the 
drawers. 

It was Delphine who had requested this, in spite of the timidity 
of which she boasted. She half rose to examine it, and was pleased 
wu'lh her inspection, doubtless, for she nodded her head in token of 
approbation. 

“ 'i^ou still wish it?’" asked Coulanges. 

“ Of c( urse 1 do. I am sure 1 shall discover secret compartments 
and it will amuse me to seek for them; and when 1 have found 
them 1 shall keep my love-letters there, not yours, monster! You 
have never written me anything but prescriptions.” 

“ Twenty-five francs,” .said one of the bj^standers, hesitatingly. 

“Twenty-five trancs!’" exclaimed the auctioneer. “ That is ab- 
surd, gentlemen. Twenty-five trancs would not represent the value 
of the ebony employed in manufacturing this masterpiece.” 

And as no one spoke: 

“ Will you notice,-gentlemen, that the feet of the table are very 
curious? They are evidently not of the same date as the rest of the 
piece, but they were turned by a very skillful workman, or rather 
by an artist. Observe the delicacy of the lines; 1 even perceive in- 
crustations of ivory.” 

“Five sous more for the ivory,” called out an old woman. 

Coulanges saw that the feet must indeed have been added recently. 
They were quite new and different ornamented from the rest of 
the table, but they added nothing to the value of the object. 

“ Well,” whispered Delphine. “ Speak!” 

“Let me alone, you don’t understand anything about it,” re- 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 87 

sponded the doctor, who piqued himself on knowing how and when 
to bid. 

“ Thirty francs, gentlemen, is no price,” cried the auctioneer. 
** See how it is carved.” 

“ Thirty- five,” said the first bidder. 

“Gentlemen, we are wasting our time, and the sale is a heavy 
one. One decent bid and 1 knock it down. Does no one answer? 

• Then forty francs, by me. It shall not be said that a charming piece 
of furniture, in the pure style of the First Empire, which belonged 
to the first consul perhaps, was sold by me for thirty-five francs.” 

“ Fifty francs,” uttered a voice which Coulanges recognized as 
that of M. Corleon. 

“Ah! Ah!” thought the doctor. “It appears that it is really 
that ridiculous thing he wants. This is odd. This man does noth- 
ing without a motive; he must therefore have a reason for bidding; 
what is it? 1 can not guess. Fiat we shall see if he really wishes 
io acquire a piece of furniture which 1 w^ould not take as a gift.” 

“ Sixty,” said Coulanges, raising his voice, so as to be heard 
throughout the whole room. 

“ It was time,” whispered Delphine. “ 1 was beginning to wonder 
if you were dumb.” 

M. Corleon, to make his bid, had left the group gathered together 
at the corner of the desk, but when the doctor spoke, be immediately 
stepped back. 

“ lie hadn't noticed me,” thought the doctor, “ and he has now 
recognized me. He is probably going to withdraw. 1 don’t see him 
any more. Ah! he is talking to the old fellow who has his back 
turned. Uut, 1 am not mistaken, that old fellow is Pere Salomon. 
Good! 1 have it! Corleon has given him a commission to bid for 
him. He imagines probably that 1 have not seen him, and he does 
not wish me to know that he is bidding for the chiffonier. "Why 
this mystery? Well, 1 won’t let him have it anyhow.” 

“ Seventy francs,” said Pere Salomon, who was an old Jew, a fre- 
quenter of the Hotel des Ventes, very much appreciated by timid 
amateurs, who are afraid to bid themselves. He had the reputation 
of being very skillful in his way and he made a good deal of monej’’, 
which did not prevent him from going about dressed like a beggar. 
He wore a long greasy coat and had an unkempt beard, as long as 
that of the Wandering Jew. 

“ One hundred francs,” said the doctor, who knew that a brisk 
rise in the price was almost equivalent to a defiance. 

“ We shall see now w^hat he means,” he thought. 


88 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


“ A hundred and twenty,” mumbled Salomon. 

“Oh!” thought Coulanges. “ This is becoming serious. ” 

The dealers were laughing in their sleeves. They had divined 
that two outsiders were going lo dispute, at big prices, for the pos- 
session of an antiquity tor which the boldest of them would not 
have given three louis. 

The auctioneer . astonished enough at his success and scenting a 
struggle, had risen from his seat to urge on the competitors with 
voice and gesture. 

Where are we, gentlemen?” he asked. ” Some one said a hun- 
dred and twenty francs, 1 think, but we shall not rest there.” 

“Fifty,” cried Coulanges. 

“ One hundred and fifty,” repeated the auctioneer, regarding Fere 
Salomon out of the corner of his eye. 

The old Hebrew made a sign. 

“ One hundred and seventy-five 1 Two hundred, by the gentleman 
opposite. Nothing more, I am going to knock it down, gentlemen.” 

Here the hammer was raised, the famous hammer which plays so 
great a part at the end of hotly contested sales. In the beginning, 
it rests upon the auctioneer’s table, a sword in its sheath. But when 
the proper moment comes, it is changed into a sword of Damocles, 
which the auctioneer holds suspended above the heads of the con- 
testants. 

In the art of managing it lies the superiority of masters of (heir 
craft. There is a threatening movement which makes the big bids 
flow as the water once flowed from the rock struck by Moses, and a 
skillfully calculated suspension which draws out the bank-notes 
from the pocket as surely as an hydraulic machine. 

The auctioneer on duty to-day was one of the best of his trade, and 
he knew his business thoroughly. Coulanges was a favorite of his, 
and, if he had consulted his feelings, he would hav^e struck the final 
blow at the bid of two hundred francs. But his love for his profes- 
sion carried him away and he thought he ought to prolong the busi- 
ness. He raised his hammer, he lowered it to within three inches 
of the table, then he raised it a^in and made it describe capricious 
circles. He had the appearance of a leader of an orchestra conduct- 
ing with his b^ton a band of musicians, 

Salomon timidly raised the bid twenty-five francs, and at this mo- 
ment, Coulanges, who had good eyes, saw that M. Corleon, who 
was behind the Jew, pulled him by his coat to give him the signal 
to bid. < ^ 

The doctor was determined and did not hesitate to raise the sum 


89 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A. DUEL. 

to the respectable amount of three hundred francs. This was very 
dear for a chiftonier, although it was of ebony, and Delphine, who 
was a good girl, said to him: 

“ Don’t go too far. 1 do not wish to ruin you. And then, if 
you intend to pay a large price, you know, 1—1 would prefer a ring 
or a bracelet.” 

‘‘ They are fools,” sail the woman who had bid twenty-five francs 
at the beginning. ” The thing is woith one hundred francs, not a 
sou more.” 

Salomon showed evident signs of uneasiness. He ran his fingers 
nervrously tnrough his beard. He had evidently promised M. Cor* 
leon to obtain the chiffonier for a dozen louis, to which was to be 
added one for his commission. 

” It is your turn,” cried the auctioneer. And at a wink from the 
Jew: ” Three hundred and twenty-five francs.” 

” Four hundred,” cried Coulanges, in a rage. 

This time it was a regular declaration of war. It was as much as 
to say: Go as high as you please, I shall not yield. 

Salomon understood it so, and, not daring to trust to the repeated 
twitches of his coat, he turned around to consult the capitalist he 
represented. 

He chose his time badly. 

The auctioneer, who was not sorry to be agreeable to M. Cou- 
langes, continued in a lower tone: 

” Gentlemen, no one seems to wish to bid more. 1 warn you that 
I am about to knock it down.” 

At the same time the hammer gently approached the desk. 

” We are at four hundred, for the third anr< last time, four hun- 
dred. It is four hundred?” 

” Four hundred.” 

” Going, going—” 

Salomon turned around, and sure now of being approved, he pro- 
nounced two words which were to be followed by a third. He 
meant to say four hundred and fifty, but the sound of the hammer 
cut short his bid. 

Undesirous of awaiting the pleasure of a gentleman he did not 
Unow, the auctioneer said in a voice to which there was no appeal: 

“Gone!” 

The Jew opened his mouth to protest, but the auctioneer launched 
a severe look at him, imposing silence. 

“ To whom? To you, monsieur?” 

Coulanges, thus appealed to, shook his head, and commenced to 


90 


THE COJSrSEQUEi^CES OF A EUEL. 


write with a pencil upon a leaf torn oat of his note-book the name 
and address of Mme. du Rainey. 

“ It is all right,” said the auctioneer to his clerk. “ They will 
send the name up. Gentlemen, we will now sell a very beautiful 
mahogany bedstead.” 

Tbe bedstead did not interest the doctor, and Delphine, who could 
not restrain her delight, had risen. 

“ How kind you are!” she said, leaning upon Coulanges’ arm. , 
“ It was dear all the same, but it has chic, Lucie of the Eouffes has a 
chiffonier which isn’t a patch upon mine. They will send it to my 
house to morrow, 1 suppose?” 

“This evening, if you wish. And yet — it is not very heavy— I 
advise you to have it tasen at once by a messenger,” said Coulanges, 
who was observing M. Corleon’s movements out of the corner of 
his eye. 

He had a discomfited air, but he did not appear to be about to- 
quit the place. 

“ That IS a good idea, but the money to pay for it? I have only 
ten francs with me.” 

The doctor handed her a bill of five hundred francs. 

“ You can keep what remains,” he said. “ Only do me the kind- 
ness to settle the bill yourself, and return and tell me if any one 
speaks to you. 1 will wait in the corridor.” 

“ Whatever you wish,” cried Delphine. “ Y^ou are an angel.” 

“ And if, by chance, any one should offer to purchase your bar- 
gain at a bigger price, promise me not to accept.” 

“There is no danger. The first present you ever made met 
Never in the world! Even if that old Mordecai should offer me a 
hundred louis.” 

Coulanges conducted Delphine to the door, and while waiting for 
her, he walked up and down the corridor. 

“ I have made a fool of myself,” he thought.. “ Courtenay would 
have laughed, if he had seen me, and yet, 1 thought, in bidding for 
that chiffonier, to circumvent Oorleon. I do not know wdiy 1 im- 
agine that in that ugly thing will be found something relative to 
poor Saulieu’s assassination, for lie w’as assassinated, surely; the 
discovery of the screw in the pistol has removed my last doubts, 
bomelhing? But what? 1 confess 1 have no idea. 1 shall go to 
see Delphine to-morrow, and 1 wdll demolish, if necessary, the table 
and the stand above it, to see what there is inside, provided she 
does not let it go. But no, 'Slie would not dare to sell the first 
present 1 have given her.” 


THE CONSEQUEIs^CES OF A DUEL. 


91 


Wliile be was tbiniin.s: thus, they were selling the pictures in the 
front room and tlie sound of the bids reached his ears. 

“ 1 am afraid ihat they will sell my Clouet/’ he growled. “ Del* 
phine will never finish; 1 have a great mind to go in and hurry her 
up. !No, r should find myself face to face with Corleon, and he has 
already seen too much of me. If he speaks to Delphine, 1 shall 
know it, and it will be a proof that he has strong reasons for want- 
ing that chiffonier; but what they are 1 can not guess, unless he 
has reully taken a fancy to an antiquity which I would throw out 
of the windows, if it were brought to my house.” 

At this moment, Delphine appeared, preceding a porter who bore 
upon his back the triumphant chiffonier. fShe was evidently de- 
lighted with her acquisition, for her eyes sparkled and her face 
beamed with joy. 

“ Well?” asked Coulanges. 

“ My dear doctor, everybody has complimented me.” 

“Upon what? 'Your figure? Your teeth? That does not as- 
tonish me.” 

” No, no, upon my purchase. The auctioneer told me that it was 
worth twice what 1 paid for it.” 

” The auctioneer was laughing at you.” 

” Not at all! The old bearded Jew offered me fitly francs more 
than it cost, but I sent him to the right-about.” 

” Did no one else speak to you?” 

” Yes, a very nice gentleman whom 1 had not noticed before.” 

‘‘Ah! and what did he say to you.” 

” That 1 was charming.” 

” Is that all?” 

” But that is quite enough. Do you imagine he asked me for 
my address? Otner people treat me with respect. It is only you 
who do not.” 

” No, because 1 adore you,” said the doctor, gallantly. ‘‘And 
now, if you will take my advice, my dear Delphine, you will go 
home with that precious object which Fere Salomon disputed with 
you, and, it you want to please me, you will not touch it till 1 have 
examined it.” 

‘‘ Do you think that there is a treasure hidden in it? That would 
be luck!” 

‘‘Mo. nut It needs cleaning. 1 know bow it should be done and 
will tell you. 1 shall come and see you to-morrow.” 

‘‘ Not at my rehearsal hour, because my art, 5^11 know, is sacred.” 

” 1 shall come before or after. And, meanwhile, it 1 were in 


92 


THE co:n^sequkkces of a duel. 


your Dlace, 1 should take a carriage and have the chiffonier put on 
the box/’ 

“You are right. And then, that gentleman could not follow 
me. 1 don’t care to make new acquaintances. Till to-morrow, 
then. Do you know, my hand does not hurt me at all now; you 
have cured me, doctor, with a bill of five hundred francs. Those 
little bits of paper are a sovereign remedy for scratches.” 

Coulanges did not care to prolong this colloquy in the corridor. 
He said good-bye to Delphine, who departed, pushing the messenger 
before her, and he returned to give a glauce at the sale. 

There was no longer any disputing over the objects offered; as 
last as they were put up, they were knocked down to the first or 
second bidder. 

The doctor had the satisfaction of seeing that M. Corleon was 
si ill there, and that he had no appearanc^^ of wishing to depart; he 
was talking in a low tone to Pere Salomon. 

“ 1 was certainly mistaken,” thought Coulanges. “ He came to 
buy something else than the ebony chiffonier, and my imaginings 
had not common sense. They cost me twenty-five louis, though. 
At last, 1 am rid of Delphine, who would not hcive left me all day, 
and 1 can dispose of my time as i wish. Just now, 1 will go to see 
where the collection is of M. Van K., a distinguished amateur of 
Rotterdam, as the advertisements have it. With the exception of 
my Clouet, this good M. Van K. of Rotterdam, possessed only 
daubs.” 

With this conclusion, the doctor hurried to the next room, and 
he had the misfortune to meet, as he entered, an amateur whom he 
knew and who carried the Clouet under his arm. It was necessary 
to give it up; the acquirer was not one of those who traffic, and he 
appeared too enchanted with the bargain he had made for Coulanges 
to dare to propose to him to yield it up. 

“ Bah!” he thought, by way of consolation, “ my vist to the Hotel 
Drouot has already cost me five handled francs. That is quite 
enough for to-day. 1 will go and have a look at the riding-school. 
In this pleasant weather, all Paris should be there.” 

And without further deliberation, he desended the grand stair- 
case, not without turning more than once, for he could not get M. 
Corleon out of his head, although he had made up his mind to 
think no more of him, and he was wondering still, if M. de Pontau- 
mur’s second would not follow Delphine and the ebony chiffonier; 
but he did not perceive him, and he decided to enter his cab, which 
he had left at the door. 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OE A DUEL. 


9a 


When he arrived at the Palais de I'lndastrie, he saw that, indeed^ 
all Paris, all Paris of the races ana first nights at the theaters, was 
there to-day, to buy or to look on, for the riding school has become 
a fashionable spectacle. 

All the usual types were there. The old gentleman, who is still 
a superb rider, in spite of his seventy years, magnificent on hoise- 
lack and always applauded by the ladies in tfie galleries, whom he 
still ogles and will ogle as long as he lives. The bourgeois oflicer 
as recognizable as if he were in uniform. The old general whe 
finds that in his time horses cost much less and were worth’ much 
more. The provincial sportsman who comes there to attend to his 
little bus>iness, and who asks advice of no one, because he knows 
better than anybody else. The connoisseur who gives gratuitous 
counsel to people whom he does not know. The broker who curries 
favor with ever3^body, and who procures dogs and coachmen as 
well as horses and carriages. The journalist who takes notes. The 
gentleman who is never seen except on foot and who wishes to pass 
for a great lover of horse-flesh, although he never buys anything. 

Coulanges knew them all and they no longer amused him. He 
had come to see pretty faces and elegant toilets, and he was not 
disappointed. 

The galleries were filled with women of the world, and even of 
the great world, those who love horses because they have always 
had them. 

The women of a lower grade in society, those whose husbands 
had recently become wealthy, were out in full force also, but they 
preferred to walk about on the arms of their friends, consulting 
them as to the purchase of an equipage promised by their hus- 
bands. 

And the yellow-haired damsels were not lacking either, especially 
in the arena. These latter paid particular attention to the carriages. 
They entered those to be sold, under pretext of trying the springs,, 
and they sometimes found a gentleman to purchase for them the 
victoria of their choice. 

Coulanges was not this gentleman. He had expended enough 
for Delphine, and he had no desire to recommence. Some of his 
patients tried to stop him^ but he extricated himself, and continued 
imperturbably to approach nearer the galleries. 

Half way across the arena, as he turned aside to avoid a group of 
gentlemen who were discussing the advantages and disadvantages 
of the French method of breaking horses, he almost ran into George 
Courtenay, who was coming in the opposite direction. 


94 


THE COKSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


“ By Jove! this is a fortunate meeting!” cried the doctor, taking 
his friend’s arm. “ VHiere have been, old man? 1 never see you. 
1 was beginning to wonder if you were angry with me.” 

” Angry with you?” said George. “Why should 1 be angry 
with you?” 

‘‘You will laugh at me, but 1 imagined that, after that foolish 
adventure in tlie Boulevard Berthier, you had not pardoned me tor 
mixing myself up in what did not concern me.” 

‘‘You are entirely mistaken. 1 no longer think of that, and the 
proof of it is, that Monsieur de Pontautnur is here, and 1 have just 
returned the bow with which he favored me.” 

‘‘ What! did he dare to bow to you?” exclaimed Coulanges. 

“Certainly,” replied Courtenay. “One ought to salute one’s 
adversaries when you have saluted them on the duel-ground. And 
1 should have made a mistake not to have returned his bow, for 1 
have no personal grievances against Monsieur de Pontaumur. It is 
disagreeable for me to meet him since he has killed poor Saulieu, 
but 1 can not forbid him to enter the riding sohool.” 

“You spoke very differently the evening of that unfortunate 
duel, and 1 am pleased to hear that you have come to a more just 
appreciation of things. It is evident that if one never forgot any- 
thing, life w^ould become impossible. Paris is full of people whom 
1 detest, and whom 1 elbow without feeling the need of flying at 
their throats.” 

“ Is that an allusion to something 1 said once?” 

“ No, certainly not; for I had forgotten all about il.” 

“ M}'^ dear Coulanges, the evening when we watched together for 
a man who had entered an iaclosure belonging to Madame Brehal, 
1 was not cool, and 1 really believe it Monsieur de Pontaumur had 
reappeared, admitting it was Monsieur de Pon<aufliur — ” 

“ Which was not proven,” interrupted the doctor. 

“If he had reappeared,” continued Courtenay, “1 would will- 
ingly have strangled him; but 1 have reflected much since that even- 
ing, and 1 am of opinion now that you were right. A ginlleman 
does not play the spy, and 1 am very much obliged to you for hav- 
ing recalled lo me that 1 had no right to watch over Madame Bre- 
hal’s conduct.” 

“ Let us speak no more of that, but tell me how you are getting 
on with the settlement of poor Saulieu’s aflairs. He left you the 
task, if 1 am not mistaken, of being his executor.” 

“No, very fortunately. He asked me, before he died, to lake 
the pocket-book which he carried — but you know about that.” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


95 


“Yes; the one perforated by Monsieur de Pontaumur's bullet^ 
and which contained a woman's picture,” 

“ Well, 1 found with that picture only unimportant papers. There 
was indeed a note which spoke of a will, but no will.” 

“ Tbe will must have been deposited with his notary.” 

“ 1 thought so, but tne notary has never receired it. I should 
have sought elsewhere, but Maurice’s heirs arrived in Paris, three 
provincial cousins, whom Maurice never saw and whom he thought 
little about; but they nevertheless were his legal heirs. They had 
learned through the papers of the death of their relative, and they 
did not trouble themselves to see me. They asked the proper au- 
thorities for the right to remove the seals from Maurice’s property,, 
and obtained it. 1 was told of what was taking place, and I went 
to Saulieu’s apartment. 1 found there these geirtlemen, who seemed 
quite at home, and who did not receive me very politely. ’ 

“ By Jove! That was too much 1 What! you, his intimate friend!”' 

“ It was so, my dear fellow. These provincials are avaricious 
and ill-mannered. If you could have seen the suspicious looks 
- they cast at me! The}’’ imagined, 1 believe, that 1 had id my pocket 
a will which bequeathed to me the fortune of their relative.” 

“ Saulieu would have done well to have disinherited them.” 

“ If he had done so to my advantage, 1 should have refused the 
' legacy, but 1 think, with you, that he should have disposed of his 
property, instead of letting it go to such people.” 

“ But 1 am convinced that he did dispose of it.” 

“ It is possible; but this is no longer my business. 1 gave it all 
up, after almost throwing Saulieu’s pccket-book at his cousins, 1 
kept only a letter, which was addressed to me, and which told me 
nothing.” 

“ And the portrait? Vou will find that 1 am very curious.” 

“1 have the portrait,” responded Courtenay, in a tone which cut 
short the doctor’s questions. “ Let us talk of something else, will 
you?” 

“ I ask nothing better,” said Coulanges, who did not judge the 
moment opportune to speak of his adventure at the Hotel Drouot. 

He thought of it, however, in connection with the story .of tne 
lost will. But the simplest common sense told him that M. Corleon 
had no interest in recovering it, for Maurice Saulieu had certainly 
not chosen one of his enemies for his heir. 

“ 1 have come here to buy a saddle-horse,” said Courtenay, “ and 
1 have not seen a single one I like. 1 have a great mind to go to 
the club, where 1 have not set foot for a long time, and dine there,” 


96 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A HCJEL. 


“lam your man, my clear Courtenay,” replied the doctor; “ and 
delighted to see you return to your old habits. 1 have missel you, 
1 assure you, for 1 pass most of my time at the. club, and when you 
are not there, 1 am not very much amused. But dinner is at seven 
o’clock, and we have a long time yet. 1 confess 1 would like to walk 
about a little before the galleries and see the pretty faces.” 

“ My poor Coulanges, you will always be the same. The women 
will ruin you. 1 predict it.” 

“ Pooh I 1 have never been in love in my life, and 1 never shall 
be. 1 hope as much for you.” 

“You say that as if you thought 1 were.” 

“You know very well that 1 never occupy ipyself with my 
friends’ affairs, and, moreover, if you were—” The doctor paused 
and said, lowering his voice: “ Here is a lady coming toward us; 
no, toward you, for 1 don’t know her. She is no longer young, 
but her figure is good still.” 

George perceived the person spoken of by Coulanges, and made a 
movement to avoid her. 

“ Too late> my friend,” whispered the doctor. “ She sees that 
you have perceived her, and, unless you wish to be rude — ” 

It was indeed too late to draw back. Courtenay made a gesture 
of impatience, but he made no further effort to hide himself, al- 
though he disliked Mme. Presnay, especially since the duel. This 
aunt of Mile. Mezenc’s might have been forty-five, and must have 
been very beautiful; but she had too vivid a remembrance of this 
latter fact, and her embonpoint, which approached the majestic, 
made ridiculous the vaporous airs she assumed. She advanced, 
flanked by two very young men, who might have been taken for 
her pages, and who were exceedingly attentive. And in order that 
nothing should be lacking to this disagreeable encounter, George 
noticed that her flaring costume made a sensation. 

“You also have abandoned me, my dear monsieur,” she said, in 
a lackadaisical manner. “1 expected to receive a call from you 
also, after that unfortunate event.” 

George bowed without replying. It required an effort for him not 
to be insolent to this silly woman, who spoke of society duties in 
connection with Maurice’s death. 

“ 1 say you, also,” continued the lady, “ for my niece has judged 
it proper to desert my house. You knew nothing of it, 1 suppose? 
Well, 1 will tell you that Marianne is an ingrate. 1 took so much 
pains to find her a husband, and it is not my fault if she has lost 
Mm.” 


IHE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 9? 

“ Are you quite sure of that, madame?’" interrupted George, 
thoroughly exasperated. 

“ 1 do not understand, dear monsieur,” said Mme. Fresnay, impu- 
dently. But 1 want to tell you that Mademoiselle Mezenc is now 
tied to the apron-strings of Madame Brehal. She is decorating the 
summer salon in that lady's hotel; she is there permanently, and 
Madame Brehal has undertaken to marry her, 1 understand. It is 
what I expected of her, and 1 renounce her. Good-day, monsieur. 
If you meet her, tell her, 1 pray, that 1 am not angry with her.” 

Mme. Fresnay departed, flirting her fan, and followed by her two 
cavaliers who had lost nothing of this discourse. 

George was pale with anger, and the doctor did not exactly know 
what to think. 

“What was the matter with her?” he murmured, “and what 
was her reason for accosting yon to complain of her niece, who was 
to have married our friend?” 

“ Suppose 1 should tell you that it was this woman who was the 
cause of Maurice’s death!” 

“ What do you say?” 

“ No, nothing, 1 prefer to be silent. But let us go. 1 am 
stifling ” 

“ The devil! I do not wish to cause you suffering; Let us go 
then, by all means, but let me first just give a glance at the galleries 
which seem to me to be full of lovely women.” 

“ Be quick with your glance, then,” returned Courtenay, follow- 
ing Ooulanges with regret. 

“ A parterre of flowers,” murmured the enthusiastic doctor. “ Is 
it the effect of spring? 1 find them all charming, and how 
exquisitely they are dressed. And to think that among all those 
great ladies 1 don’t know one; that is what comes from being too 
lazy to go into society. My dear fellow! will 5 "ou look at those two 
lovely creatures? Sisters, perhaps. No, one is dark and pale, the 
other rosy and blonde. By Jove! if 1 had to choose between them, 
1 should be embarrassed.” 

Courtenay looked up absently, but his face changed as he recog- 
nized Mile. Mezenc and Mme. Brehal, 

“ Good gracious!” cried Coulanges. “ They are bowing to you. 
Look! the blonde is motioning to you. Come, my dear fellow, you 
shall introduce me.” 

This time too, but for different reasons, Courtenay would will- 
ingly have avoided the honor done him. He obeyed the signal, how- 
ever, and joined Mme. Brehal, saluting her as ceremoniously as possi- 


98 


THE COKSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


ble. His coldness failed in its effect tliongh, for she laughed 
heartily, and said to him : 

“ What have I done to you, my dear George? 1 have not seen 
you lor thiee weeks; i have the happiness to encounter you, and 
you bow to me as if you were saluting the Queen of England. Made- 
moiselle Mezenc will think we have quarreled. No more of your 
ceremony, it you please. Or, if you stand upon form, present to me- 
monsieur, who is your intimate friend, 1 know.” 

George with a bad enough grace presented Coulanges. 

“ Very well,” continued Mme. Brehal deliberately. “ Now know' 
that if to-morrow, at noon precisely, you do not come to breakfast 
with me with Doctor Coulanges, who will pardon the unceremoni- 
ous invitation, 1 will never see you again in my life; yes, you un- 
derstand, to breakfast, not to dinner. You know 1 do nothing like 
other women, and then 1 have my reasons. 1 wish to show you my 
domains which you are not acquainted with, my fields—there are 
fields— my kiosks, and what is worth a thousand times more, the 
paintings which Mademoiselle Marianne Mezenc is executing. She 
has promised me to be there, and you can not refuse. 1 have 
spoken; and upon this, gentlemen, 1 pray Heaven to keep you iis- 
its holy guard,” concluded the chatelaine of the Avenue de Villiers,^ 
dismissing them with a royal gesture. 


CHAPTER V. 

The club, where took place the scene of violence, for which 
Maurice Saulieu paid with his life in the redoubt of Gennevilliers,. 
did not pretend to rival the great clubs. But neither did it resemble 
those where you enter almost as into a cafe and which are managed 
by a steward, who after all is only a croujpier. It was of the middle 
class of clubs and governed by a board of directors, who did not 
admit every one. Many perfectly irreproachable men, who do not 
dare to have their names presented at the Jockey or the Union tor 
fear of receiving an undeserved blackball, attach themselves to less 
aristocratic and less exclusive associations, where it is still very hon- 
orable to be admitted, although less difficult. 

This club, called familiarly the Moucherons, was certainly one of 
the most animated, lively, and agreeable of its class. Young mea 
were in the majority, but there was not lacking a sprinkling of those 
of maturer age to give it weight. Rather heavy play was indulged 
in there as everywhere; but disagreeable occurrences were rare, that 


THE COi^SEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


99 


IS to say, when any one was discovered cheating, or when names 
were posted on the bulletin-board because the losses had not been 
paid within twenty-four hours. 

The members naturally formed two classes : the day habitues, who 
! came to read the newspapers, and those who arrived at the time of 
j the closing of the theaters, when good bourgeois go to bed. Toward 
I midnight, the night-owls assembled about the fire-place in the large 
red parlor, which then became a center of information, tor each one 
brought the news of the evening and the latest scandals. 

Before dinner, the whist-players did not tolerate loud conversa- 
tion there, and the talkers took refuge jn the billiard-room where 
, ’Chattering disturbed no one. 

This was what Geo'Tge Courtenay and the doctor did when they ^ 
^arrived there from the riding-school. Although a discussion had 
been commenced as they left the Palais de ITndustrie, they had not 
yet come to an agreement. Mme. Brehal had dismissed them with- 
out waiting tor an answer, and George wished to refuse her invita- 
tion while it was the doctor’s desire to accept it. Each backed up 
his opinion with excellent reasons, and neither would yield. 

In the billiard-room two players of almost equal skill were engaged 
in a match-game of thirty points, and there w'ere numerous betters 
on each side. But the room was spacious and, to be somewhat iso- 
lated, the t\^o friends took up their position quite at the end of the 
leather-covered settees on \^hich were seated the spectators of the 
match: 

“ My dear Coulanges,” said George, “ 1 know Madame Brehal, 
nnd 1 am sure that she was jesting. A widow does nol give break- 
fasts to bachelors.” 

” Pardon me, my dear Courtenay,” responded Coulanges, ” but 
you have often told me that Madame Brehal did nothing like other 
people.” 

‘‘ It was precisely for that reason that she thought of playing a 
joke upon us, something like an April-fool trick.” 

“ I could understand her doing such a thing to you, who have 
known her for a long time, although these pleasantries are not in 
vogue among women of the world, but to me, whom she saw for the 
first time! 1 will never believe if.” 

“You are free to try the adventure. 1 shall not put my foot in- 
side of her hotd.” 

” And do you think that 1 could go without you? What sort of 
an appearance should 1 make with a young widow and a young 
girl, neither of whom 1 know at all?” 


100 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL, 


“You can make love to both of them,” replied George, brusquely^ 

“ 1 should take care not to make myself so ridiculous,- 1 possess 
no attractions for Madame Brehal, unless as a physician, and 1 
should have scruples about paying foolish compliments to a young 
girl who still weeps the death of her fiance.'' 

“ How do you know she weeps for him? Did you notice that her 
eyes were red?” 

“ No, indeed! Her eyes are superb, regular black diamonds. But 
slie is sad, she must be.” 

“ It appears not. She is seen at the riding-school three weeks 
after the duel in which Maurice was killed.” 

“ My dear fellow, it is not proven that people in mourning ought 
not to go to the riding-school,” said the doctor, smiling, “ and then 
you forget what Madame Fresnay, her aunt, tald you. Mademoi- 
selle Mezenc paints every day at Madame BreliaUs house, and it was 
quite natural that she should accompany her protectress. By the 
way, 1 am astonished that Saulieu did not think of her before he 
fought. He was rich enough to leave her a legacy.” 

“ There are many things which astonish me,” murmured Courte- 
nay. 

“That young girl is charming,” continued the doctor, warmly. 
“ If 1 had not made a vow to remain a bachelor for the rest of my 
days, 1 should really think of trying my luck there; later of course, 
when she is consoled. But let us go back to the original question. 
Are you entirely determined not to go to Madame BrehaUs?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“ Take care. 1 shall begin to believe that you are angry with her 
since our nocturnal adventure in the Boulevard Bcrthier.” 

“ Believe what yon like.” 

“ Oh, before we met her, 1 told you 1 never meddled in what did 
not concern me. And yet, 1 may acknowledge that I should have 
liked to breakfast to-morrow with that charming widow, not only 
for the pleasure of seeing her, but to visit her grounds.” 

“ Do you think that the table will be spread in the garden?” 

■ “No, not precisely. But you did not hear, apparently, that she 
promised to show us her fields, that was the word she used.” 

“ 8he spoke of kiosks.” 

“ Well, a kiosk in the midst of a field, perhaps in that wery in- 
closure. 1 should be curious to see tnat.” 

“ Not 1,” said Courtenay dryly. 

The conversation ceased. Coulanges feared to wound his friend 
by saying too much, and yet he did not abandon his idea, for he was 


THE COKSEQUEIS’CES OF A DUEL. 


101 


tenacious; but a doubtful shot had been made, and the noise ol the 
discussion which followed prevented any further talk. 

“ 1 tell you, my ball touched the red, ’’ cried one of the players, 
a frequenter of the Bourse who made year in and year out thirty 
thousand francs by playing billiards at the club. 

“ ]So one saw it,” responded his opponent, a young man recently 
arrived from the provinces to spend his patrimony in Paris. “1 
appeal to the capiain. ” 

“ Humph!” murmured the doctor. “ Morgan is here. 1 didn’t 
see him.” 

M. de Pontaumur’s second emerged from one of the groups. The 
captain had seen twenty years of service and many campaigns, and 
he did not bear too good a character. He had bet on the young 
provincial, and he did not hesitate to declare that the ball had 
missed. He even added that a man had no right, in a game like 
this, to nurse three balls in a corner of tne table. His opinion was 
the general one and the tumult was appeased. But the appearance 
of Morgan, the friend of Maurice’s murderer, had not improved 
Courtenay's temper. 

‘‘Tell me,” said the doctor. ^‘Madame Brehal has chamber- 
maids, has she not?” 

” Still Madame Brehal!” exclaimed George. ” And what does it 
matter to you if she has?” 

” Why, if one of them was young and pretty — ” 

” They are all so. Well?” 

‘‘ Then one of them probably has a lover.” 

” What are you driving at?” 

“ Kothing would prevent one of Madame Brehal’s maids making 
an appointment in the fields which btlong to her mistiess, and 1, 
for one, would like — ” 

” Upon my word you never give in. If you want to go there to 
morrow go without me.” 

‘‘ You know very well that that is impossible. At least,” sighed 
Coulanges, ” 1 hope you will invent some polite excuse to explain 
our absence.” 

1 shall invent nothing at all, for 1 shall not write to Madame 
Brehal.” 

” But that will be an outrageous rudeness.” 

‘‘ 1 do not see it. f am bound to reply to a letter, but when 1 am 
asked, personally, and no trouble is taken to wait for my answer, 1 
have a right to take no notice of the invitation. You can write if 
you like. 1 most certainly shall not.” 


102 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


Upon this decision, which seemed without appeal, Courtenay rose 
and moved toward a little parlor next the billiard-room. The 
vicinity of Captain Morgan was disagreeable to him, and he wished 
to smoke his cigar in a place where he could no longer see his un- 
pleasant face. 

Coulanges followed him, not considering himself beaten yet. 

They found there two members of the club who were talking in 
an embrasure of the window and who did not stop when they saw 
the two friends establish themselves on a sofa quite near them. 
Courtenay and Coulanges knew that one of them was a painter and 
the other an architect, and they were not surprised to hear them 
speaking of art matters. 

“ My picture is accepted,” said the painter, “ and 1 am going to 
give myself a vacation of two months. After the opening of the 
salon 1 am going to join some friends at Hai bison. Will you come 
with me?” 

”1 wish 1 could,” responded the architect, “but 1 have not 
finished my work in the Avenue de Villiers, at Madame Brehal’s, a 
millionaire widow, and a beautiful woman to boot.” 

“ 1 have seen her,” said the painter. ” She was pointed out to 
me, last Tuesday, in a box at the Fran 9 ais, and she is beautiful. A 
face like Fragonard used to paint, and as no one paints nowadays. 
If she should want her portrait painted at a good price remember 
your triend. And what are you building for this Dubarry of the 
Avenue de Villiers? 1 thought that she owned a house and lived 
in it.” 

“ So she does,” responded the architect; “ it is just at the corner 
of the avenue and the Boulevard Berthier, which runs along by the 
fortifications.” 

“ That is a little far, but when one owns horses and carriages, 
one can put up with the inconveniences of living two or three miles 
from the opera She is rich, eh?” 

“ Very rich, and not mean in business, which, for a woman born 
and married in the circle of finance, is very rare. The accounts of 
the builder are settled without the least difficulty; 1 even think she 
finds them not large enough.” 

“ Introduce me.” 

“ And with all that, she is not bourgeoise at all. She has taste 
and a highly developed artistic sentiment. 1 have only to execute 
lipr ideas, and she has three or four a day.” 

“ Why, this lady is a phenomenon! I have never met such an 


THE COKSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


loa 


one. She must be unique of her kind. But what work has she 
confided to you?” 

” One of not great importance, but it amuses me infinitely; it is 
the most original thing imaginable. Fancy, my dear fellow, that 
this intelligent Madame Biehal has had the idea of utilizing a large 
piece of ground which she owns and which touches the garden ot 
her hotel.” 

Courtenay was about to rise, to escape a conversation which 
troubled him, because it had for its object a person whom he sought 
to forget, but Coulanges, divining his intention, nudged him and 
whispered ‘W ait ! This is becoming very interesting. ” 

And Courtenay assented, biting a cigar which he had allowed to 
go out. 

“It is praiseworthy,” continued the architect, “ for she might 
have sold this ground for a large price. But Madame Brehal loves 
to make plans, and she dreams of arranging a residence for herself 
liKe no other in Paris, bo she has commenced by transforming the 
land in question into a park, a park of the nature of the Little 
Trianon.” 

” Well, but you are not a landscape gardener, 1 think?” 

‘‘ Ko, but there are buildings: a cow-house, a dairy, and a bird- 
house, the plans of which 1 drew and which are a little out ot my 
line. But the chief thing is the pavilion, which is built from my 
design with the lady’s suggestions.” 

” A chalet like those in Switzerland, then? 1 can not coraplL 
ment you.” 

‘‘If you should say a kiosk it would be nearer the truth; and 
yet it is not precisely a kiosk, as we French understand it. It is 
thought here that in Turkey the kiosks are of wood, confounding 
that country with CUina. Madame Brehal desired to have an exact 
reproduction of the one the Sultan possesses upon the Bosphorus, in 
which the style of the Kenaissance is very happily blended with the 
Oriental style, and 1 had only to copy it. It will be a little smailei, 
but it will be charming.” 

” Only the Bosphorus will be missing. But, if it is built of 
stone—” 

” Of marble, white marble. It does not agree very well with our 
rainy climate, but Madame Brehal allows no discussion of her 
fancies.” 

‘‘ She can have her kiosk cleaned every year. But what is she 
going to use it for?” 

For change of air, she pretends. Her hotel is superb, and the 


104 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 


garden surrounding it is not bad, but she has no counlry-liouse nor 
villa in the suburbs, and she does not want one. She adores Paris 
to such a point that she never willingly leaves it, even during the 
summer. Therefore, she has imagined bringing the country to her 
own door, and when she is bored at Dome or it is too warm she will 
go to breathe the air on the other side of her wall." 

Courtenay did not lose a word of this instructive conversation, 
and Coulanges, who was also listening with much attention, said in 
his friend’s ear, " 1 should like to ask him if there is a door between 
the garden of the hotel and the Little Trianon." 

George responded only with a significant glance, and the doctor 
immediately fell’ back into the nonchalant position of a man halt 
asleep on a sofa of his club, and who does not bother himself about 
what others are saying. The talkers, moreover, had no reason for 
being careful, for they were not speaking of secrets, and they did 
not suspect that the gentlemen near them knew the lady and the 
hot^l. 

“And how is this surprising work progressing?" asked the 
artist, 

“ It is almost finished. 1 have only to superintend the decoration 
of the interior. " 

“lam astonished that 1 have heard nothing of this in society or 
here, at the Moucherons. Madame Hrehal is well known in Paris, 
and her idea is not a common one." 

“ She asKed me to say nothing of it, and 1 am not even sure if her 
servants know of it. The ground extends to the Kue de Courcelles, 
and my workmen enter on that side." 

“More and more curious," whispered Coulanges. 

And assuredly George shared his opinion, although he appeared to 
be half asleep. 

“ She wishes it to be a surprise," continued the architect. 

“ To whom? To her husband?" 

“ No, I told you that she was a widow. To her friends, proba- 
bly." 

“ 1 would like to be one of them. But how was it that you did 
not think of me for the decoration? There must be paintings." 

“Certainly. Pour panels in the summer salon, representing the 
four seasons. 1 did speak of you. The lady saw two of your ^ 
paintings at the salon, and she admires your talent." 

“Well." 

“ But— there is a but— she is the protectress of a young girl who 
paints, and as she wishes her to make some money—" 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


105 


“What! a paintress to smear the walls of the Sultan’s kioskl 
Aud you dare to say that Madame Brehal is a woman of taste? 
Capdenac, my friend, you have lowered yourself consideiably in 
my esteem. Let us talk no more of this, out go and play piquet.'^ 

’ “ Be easy, Tartaa, and 1 will recommend you for the portrait. 

Meanwhile, I will try to beat you a thousand points at five sous a 
point. What do you sayV Is that high enough? You may, per- 
haps, lose a dozen louis, but you can tack it on to the price of the 
portrait.” 

The two gentlemen rose and entered the large parlor, pushing-io 
the door between. 

“ Well!” exclaimed the doctor, “ do you still tell me that Madame 
Brehal’s kind invitation is an April-fool joke? Those kiosks and 
the other marvels, which she wished to show us, exist. And the 
breakfast is explained; at this season of the year it is dark at dinner- 
time and we should have seen nothing.” 

“Not even Mademoiselle Mezenc’s pictures,” returned George, • 
with a preoccupied air. 

“ While in the day-time we can admire them at our ease, and 1 
admit that 1 should take great pleasure in doing so. Ihat young 
girl interests me, and she certainly interests you also.” 

“ Much less, since she has placed herself under Madame Brehal’s 
protection. She needs no one else now.” 

“ That is no reason why the friends of poor Saulieu should ab- 
stain from showing her marks of their s^^mpatiiy, and since Madame 
Brehal has even exhibited a wish to encourage that, it would be 
very bad taste in us to refuse. Remember, too, that we shall be 
able to visit that mysterious inclnsure, which puzzled us so much a 
certain evening—” 

“ 1 have already begged you, doctor, not to recall to me a circum- 
stance which 1 wish to think no more of, any more than 1 do of the 
duel.” 

“ 1, too, would like to forget the duel, but i meet everywhere 
people who remind me of it. We have just seen one of Monsieur 
de Ponlaumur’s seconds, and, look! there is the other one in the 
large parlor; you can see him through the glass door.” 

, “Corleon!” exclaimed George. “Yes, it is indeed he. 1 have 
not seen him since the day of the duel, and 1 take no pleasure in see- 
ing him again.” 

“ 1 have already encountered him, before, to-day,” said the doc- 
tor, “and 1 confess that I am not very sorry to see him again 
here,” 


106 THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 

“You astonish me. This man inspires me with an indefinable 
repugnance. “ 

“ Do you think that 1 like him? I dislike him as much as you 
do, but to-day I have reasons for not being afflicted at his presence. 
1 may even speak to him, if 1 find the opportunity.” 

, “ Great good may it do you! 1 shall not be a third in your con- 
versation, and 1 should be very seriously annoyed to have to dine 
with him. Are you sure that his name was not down for the table 
d’hote?” 

“Yes, perfectly; but while 1 was writing ours, I saw the names 
of the two gentlemen who were talking here just now, Monsieur 
Oapdenac and Monsieur Tartas.” 

“ Oh! 1 don’t mind them.” 

“ Nor 1, either. They are pleasant enough, and the bores prepon- 
derate here. I would rather have them next me at table than many 
people of my acquaintance. And then the subject of their conver- 
sation is not worn out. They have told us many curious things, 
and they will, perhaps, tell us many others.” 

“ My dear doctor,” said Courtenay, quickly, “ 1 do not care at 
all to hear any more. And 1 hope that before all the guests at the 
table these gentlemen will have the sense not to babble about 
Madame Brehal and her fanciful constructions; it would be in the 
worst possible taste. ” 

“ Especially as Madame Biehal has requested secrecy of her 
architect. But the prohibition will soon be raised, as the work is 
finished. She, apparently, does not intend to reserve this delicious 
kiosk for her personal use, to the exclusion of all her friends, and 
as she has many—” 

“ She has very few, on the contrary.” 

“ Well, you are one of them, at all events, and she loses no time 
in showing you the wonders of her transformed domain, and she is 
probably very anxious to do so.” 

“ It would have been much better if she had told me of all this 
before she undertook it, but she did not say a word to me about it.” 

“ She was arranging a surprise for you, and the breakfast to- 
morrow has no other end in view. 1 am very much flattered that 
she has asked me, for, before entering the riding-school, 1 had never 
seen her. Had you ever spoken of me to her?” 

“ 1 mentioned your name the evening you came to seek me at her ^ 
house.” 

“ And, perhaps, you told her that 1 had served with you as one 
of poor Saulieu’s seconds?” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


lor 


“ Yes. 1 had to explain to her why you were in such a hurry to 
speak to me.'' 

“ Then, 1 am less surprised at being asked. She wishes to thank 
me in this way tor having assisted you on a sad occasion." 

"1 don’t know what she wishes; perhaps, she herself doesn’t 
know, for she does not reflect much on what she does. However, 
she may have thought of presenting you to Mademoiselle Mezenc to 
replace Wiq fiance she has lost." 

" If 1 thought that, 1 should run away," said Coulanges, laugh* 
iug. " My celibacy is dear to me, and the woman who shall marry 
me is not born yet; for 1 do not intend to marry before 1 am fifty,, 
and when I am that old, 1 shall only care for buds. But 1 am quite 
sure that you are mistaken. In the first place, Madame Brehal said 
that we should see the young lady working at her paintings. She 
did not say that she would breakfast with us." 

" Why, they are always together; you heard what Madame 
Fresnay said. 1 would willingly bet that Madame Brehal has 
taken it into her head to find a husband for her protegee, and it seems 
to me that Wie protegee lends herself to the scheme very willingly. 
Between ourselves, it is ridiculous enough, for they scarcely knew 
each other before Maurice’s death, and when Madame Brehal let 
me see her intentions in regard to Mademoiselle Mezenc, 1 did not 
hide from her my ideas on the subject. If 1 should accept her in- 
vitation, she would think that 1 had changed my opinion." 

"Then, it is decided," said the doctor, in a melancholy voice. 
• We shall not contemplate the marvels of the ‘ Little Trianon.’ " 

" 1 do not prevent you from contemplating them." 

" Without you? Never! And it is a pity, for 1 would have liked 
to see the interior of that inclosure where so many things are done. 
But, after all, 1 can give myself that pleasure without entering. 
The hillock, at the foot of which I was seated, overlooks the land 
which Madame Brehal has made a paradise of, and it would be 
sufficient to mount it to have a view of the whole." 

" That is a very brilliant ides, and if Madame Brehal perceives 
you perched upon that eminence, she will conceive a high opinion 
of you." 

Coulanges felt the irony of this speech and said no more. He 
was almost ashamed of having said so much, and he was amazed at 
the change in himself during the last few hours. 

He, the careless skeptic; he, who would not have walked a mile ta 
declare his love to the prettiest woman in Paris; he, who pretended 
that he was indifferent to everything in this mundane sphere, waa 


108 


THE CON^SEQUEKCES OE A DUEL. 


DOW racking his brain to solve problems which did not touch him 
personally, and allowed himselt to toilow clews like a protessional 
detective. 

The talse bullet picked up after the duel, the screw which had 
scratched Delphine’s hand, all these indications ot a crime seemed 
to him to have an unexplained conned ion with the singular actions 
of Maurice Saulieu’s adversary. 

He had already given twenty-five louis to prevent M. Corleon 
from purchasing a ridiculous- piece of furniture, and he had allowed 
himself this costly fancy because he imagined, without knowing 
why, that the chiftonier had also played a part in the shadowy 
machinations about him. And his case had this peculiarity about 
it: he was not at all decided to push the investigation to the end. 
On the contrary, he was inclined to keep himself clear of conject- 
ures tor tear- of becoming involved in a series of difficulties and 
worries which should trouble his peaceful, philosophical life. But 
in vain did he reproach himself with weakness, the enigma would 
come into his mind, it absolutely besieged him, and, as all enigmas 
are made to be solved, Coulanges had become a detective in spite of 
himself. 

To complete his hard luck, he could scarcely confide his doubts 
and troubles to George Courtenay, for he suspected him of being 
much more interested in Mme. Brehal than he would allow, and 
he reared to wound him by seeking to determine the nature of the 
secret relations which Mme. Brehal appeared to have with M. de 
Pontaumur. 

For a moment he had hoped that the breakfast in the Avenue de 
Villiers would furnish him with some light; but George would not 
listen to it, and the disappointed doctor no longer knew what to do 
or even what to say. 

A waiter relieved him from his immediate embarrassment by an- 
nouncing that dinner was served. 

Courtenay, whom many successive incidents had greatly agitated, 
was only too glad to have a change, and Coulanges followed him 
into the dining-room, where was served the table d'hote, at which it 
was necessary to engage one’s place in advance. The negligent or 
tardy had the resource of being served in a neighboring gadery. 

The players in the red parlor had thrown down their cards at the 
first announcement of dinner, and the table was almost full when 
the doctor and his friend entered the room. They were enabled, 
however, to find two seats together, and Coulanges discovered that 


THE COHSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


109 


he had for a neighbor the architect, Capdeuac, beyond whom was 
the painter, Tartas; and they both seemed inclined to talk. 

Courtenay, less fortunate, was seated at the right of a respectable 
landed proprietor, who had come up from the country to obtain 
information as to the progress in methods of raising live-stock. 

The other guests almost all belonged to the category of econom- 
ical clubmen, who prefer a dinner at a fixed price to the more va- 
ried, but dearer, repasts of the fashionable restaurants. These latter, 
moreover, always complain, and would like to have given them for 
seven francs truffled turkeys and Chateau Lafitte. 

The dinner was the usual one in all clubs, where the same dishes 
invaiiably re-appear, and where the luxury of the service is not a 
sufficient compensation for the monotony of tne cuisine. 

The doctor was often afflicted by it, but this evening he scarcely 
paid any ai tent ion to what he was eating, and Courtenay still less, 
although' he was accustomed to live well. 

The other guests were more particular, and the reading of the 
menu gave rise to a general howl. 

“ Salmon again!'' cried an old merchant, who had made a fort- 
une in drugs, and who was contented with very meager tare, when 
he dined at home. “It is outrageous to have always to eat the 
same fish." 

“ Especially this one," said a gentleman in a white cravat and 
gold eyeglasses, like Henry Monnier's Prud’homme. “ One gets 
tired of it so quickly that in ScDtland, where it is very common, the 
servants — " 

“ Stipulate that they shall eat ii only three times a week; every- 
body knows that," interrupted a facetious member of the Bourse. 
“ But we are not in Scotland, and here at Ledoyen’s and in the 
Champs- Elysees, they eat it three hundred and sixty-five limes a 
year." 

“ Well,” observed Tartas, gravely, “ they have one day to rest 
in, when it is leap year." 

“ All this, gentlemen, is the fault of the dinner committee," ex- 
claimed a chronic kicker, who had even complained that the open- 
ing in the complaint-box was too small. “Monsieur Corleon is a 
member of it, and he inspires me with no confidence." 

“ Do you think that he has an understanding with the trades- 
people?" asked Capdenac, laughing. 

“ I know nothing about it; but since he has been on the commit- 
tee, everything is execrable, especially the wines.” 


110 ^ THE COHSEQUEHCES OE A DUEL. 

Send in your complaint, my dear fellow, with the proofs. He 
is going to drink his own wines^ since he dines here this evening.*" 

Courtenay glanced at the doctor, who said to him in a low tone: 

“ The fellow must have written his name at the last moment.’* 

As he spoke, M. Coileon entered, and sat down nearly opposite 
to them. 

His arrival cast a gloom over the company. He was not liked 
in the club, perhaps because he always won; but he was too politic 
to give people a chance to quarrel with him. 

Courtenay was enraged, and he could scarcely keep from leaving 
the room, but his better reason prevailed, although he made up his 
mind never again to dine at the table d'hote. 

Coulanges did not regret very much being there. Corleon was 
one of the terms of the problem he was studying, and he hoped 
vaguely that the conversation would by chance furnish him with 
unexpected indications. He had not long to wait. 

“ Tell me, Corleon,” exclaimed the speculator, whom Captain 
Morgan had accused of nursing his balls at billiards, “ are you re- 
furnishing your rooms? 1 saw you to-day at the H6tel des Ventes, 
ardently bidding for an ebony chiffonier.” 

” You are mistaken, my dear Vervelle,” responded M. Corleon, 
quickly, with a sidelong glance at the doctor. ” 1 did not bid for 
anything.” 

‘‘ Pooh! you’ll tell me next that 1 did not see you. Y"ou were 
hidden behind P^re Salomon, but 1 have good eyes.” 

“ An old Jew, very badly dressed, is he not? It was he who 
bid.” 

‘‘On your account, though. You whispered to him the bids^ 
and he repeated them.” 

” 1 tell you, no. 1 entered there by chance, and did not even no- 
tice what they were selling.” 

” Well, it was lucky you did not get the chiffonier, at all events^ 
li was nut worth three louis, and it was knocked down at a sense- 
less price. Ask Doctor Coulanges, who bid against you.” 

Coulanges could well have dispensed with this appeal, which he 
had not foreseen. 

He had indeed perceived Vervelle in the auction- room, but the 
gentleman, whom he had but a slight acquaintance with, only 
showed himself for an instant, and the doctor flatteied himself that 
his bids had not attracted the attention of a man who was never so 
happy as when bothering M. Corleon. 

He felt obliged to answer; 


THE CONSEQUEiTCES OF A DUEL. Ill 

It was not for myself, 1 beg; you to believe, for 1 am quite of 
your opinion; the price was much too dear.” 

” It appears that no one wished it, and that it was sold all by it- 
self,” said Yervelle, laughing. “You do well to deny it, gentle- 
men, for it was a horribly ugly thing.” 

” That is what 1 said over and over again to the lady 1 bought it 
lor, and who begged me to bid it lor her.” 

” Little Delphine, of the Boulies, was it not? 1 noticed her, and 
1 also said to myself, ‘ It is not possible that the doctor has taken a 
fancy to such an object as that!’ Well, all is explained. That lit- 
tle girl is as pretty as a pink, but she has a false idea of the value of 
furniture.” 

“It was, perhaps, the chiffonier of her mother,” said the face- 
tious painter. 

“ Perhaps it was,” returned Vervelle, gravely. “And perhaps 
Corleon intended to offer it to her.” 

“ In that case, 1 should have paid for it, and if j^ou wish for in- 
formation on that point, you have only to question the auctioneer.” 

“ It would be simpler to question the doctor, but that would be 
indiscreet.” 

“ Oh! not at all,” replied Coulanges. “ I confess very willingly 
that 1 could not refuse anything to Madame du Rainey, who is one 
of my patients. 1 went to the Hotel Diouot to give myself a little 
picture of Clouet’s, which pleased me very much; 1 missed it, and 1 
met Delphine, who begged me to buy her something; she begged 
me so prettily that 1 was persuaded. I do not regret my money, but 
1 regret that she had such bad taste.” 

“ They are all alike; they have no appreciation of art. 1 will bet 
you that she would not have wanted your Clouet, and that she is 
delighted \Nith her trumpery chiffonier.” 

Coulanges simply smiled in token of assent. He did not care to 
prolong this conversation, in which he was not sorry to have taken, 
part, for M. Corlecn, after having exhibited a certain uneasiness, 
now appeared quite reassured. 

“ He thinks that 1 was the dupe of his denials,” thought the doc- 
tor; “ that is what 1 wanted; and 1 am now positive. By denying 
that he hid for the chiffonier, he has proved to me that he has some 
reason for concealing that he wanted it.” 

The other diners, who had been very little interested in the pre- 
ceding conversation, drifted on to other subjects, and the repast 
went on. People eat quickly at these club dinners, and they were 
soon at the second course. 


112 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


CourteiKiy, still somber and preoccupied, had paid no attention 
to the remarks of his companions. He was thinking of Mme. Bre- 
hal, and, after having rejected the idea of accepting her invitation 
to breakfast, he was now wondering if it would not be better for 
him to go. 

The words of the architect, Gapdenac, had somewhat shaken his 
resolution, whatever he had said. Since the evening which had 
ended so badly in the Avenue Berthier, Courtenay had perceived that 
he was absolutely jealous, and he knew that one is not jealous with- 
out being in love. He would nat acknowledge it to himself, but 
he missed Mme. Brehal. He had abstained from going to her 
house, because he feared that his feelings would again lead him 
away. He was afraid to take up the interview again at the dan- 
gerous point where lie had left it off, and to finish the declaratioa 
commenced in the little salon, when he had almost fallen at the 
feet of the beautiful widow. 

He hoped, besides, that she would come or write, and she had not 
given him any sign of life. This indiflerence wounded him, for 
Mme. Brehal had not accustomed him to such a system, and he 
could find only disagreeable explanations of it. 

M. de Pontaumur was never out of his mind; and, as often hap- 
pens in such cases, he shrunk from a solution of the mystery, which 
perhaps it only depended upon himself to obtain. Nothing pre- 
vented him, surely, from telling Mme. Brehal what he had seen, 
and it was not probable that she would take refuge in silence. But 
self-love restrained him; he knew that to speak would be to ac- 
knowledge what he felt, and he waited for some more fitting oppor- 
tunity. 

He had known indirectly that Mile. Mezenc had agreed to paint 
the pictures ordered by Mme. Biehal, but he had not gone again to 
see Maurice fiancee. The call he had made upon her after 

the duel had left a painful impression upon him. And, suddenly, 
in the very midst of his uncertainty, he had met the young girl with 
Mme. Brehal, and, without excuses or preambles, the chatelaine of 
the Avenue de Villiers had given him a most unexpected invitation. 

What was the meaning of this breakfast to which she had also in- 
vited the doctor? Why did she wish to bring together at her house 
the two friends of the man whom M. de Pontaumur had killed? 
Was it really to show them gardens and Kiosks, or had Mme. 
Brehal more serious designs? 

Courtenay kept asking himself these questions, arid especially 
since he had accidentally heard of the transformation in her domain. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 


113 


While he was reflcctioff and absently eating what the waiters 
placed before him, the name of the man he detested fell upon his 
ear. The speculator, Veivelle, an incessant talker, was asking Cor- 
leon for hews of M. de Fontaumur, whom no one had seen lor three 
w eeks. 

It was not very good taste to make such a request, in presence of 
the seconds who had assisted the unfortunate Saulieu, but in Paris 
the dead die quickly, and the duel was well-nigh forgotten. Courte- 
nay and the doctor simply exchanged a look and listened without 
speaking a word. They noticed that M. Corleon answered as if 
against his will, and tried to turn the conversation into another 
channel. This was meritorious on his part, and they were tempted 
to give him credit tor it, but the indiscreet Vervelle so insisted that 
other guests finally broke in. 

“Monsieur de Fontaumur seel^s solitude,” said Mme. Brehal’s 
architect. “] have met him two or three times at the fortifica- 
tions.” 

“Bahl” cried Yervelle. “And what the devil Was he doing 
there?” 

“ He was meditating. 1 saw him in broad daylight, seated oii 
the top of a mound of earth.” 

“ And didn’t you ask him why he had mounted up there?” 

“ No. 1 scarcely know him. And, besides, 1 saw him from a 
distance. 1 thought that he was admiring the view.' You can see 
from there all the new quarter which has been built at the end of 
the Avenue de Yilliers; there are superb hotels and beautiful gar- 
dens.” 

“ Tell me, Corleon, is your friend in love? Only lovers go to 
meditate in solitary places. From his appearance, 1 should never 
have suspected that he had heart troubles.” 

The doctor was upon thorns, and Courtenay, pale with anger, 
could scarcely contain himself. 

The architect, who was not lacking in tact, ended by perceiving 
it, and took no notice of Yervelle’s foolish words. 

Some of th& diners, well-bred men, who had not yet forgotten the 
sad story of the duel, raised their voices to discuss another subject, 
and there was no more question of M. de Pontaumur. 

But the blow had been struck, and George had taken a decided 
resolution. 

He let Coulanges engage with his neighbor in an insignificant col- 
loquy, which had no other end than to prevent him from renewing 
the disagreeable subject, and when the doctor turned tow^ard him 


114 THE CONSEQUENCES OF* A DUEL. 

again, he said to him, lowering his voice, so as to be heard by him 
alone: 

** This must be ended. That scoundrel w’ould compromise Ma- 
dame Brehal.'’ 

“ 1 always thought that he sought nothing else,’" returned Cou- 
langes. 

“ At all events, 1 wish her to be warned.” 

“ How? Do you propose to write to her yourself?” 

‘‘ No. Such things can not be written. 1 shall speak to her. 1 
have changed my opinion. We will breakfast with her to-morrow.” 

‘‘ Good! 1 shall do so very willingly, and 1 promise not to be in 
your way. I have a presentiment, my dear fellow, that you will not 
regret going. Everything will be cleared up.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

It was over, the breakfast, which Courtenay had accepted orly 
after long hesitation, and which the doctor would have regretted all 
his life, if he had been obliged to deprive himself of it to please his 
friend. 

He had never before found himself seated near so charming a 
woman, never had he tasted such exquisite cooking or drunk such 
good wines, although he knew and frequerited all the restaurants re- 
nowned tor their cellars. It was no longer only liking which he felt for 
Mme. Brehal, but veneration, since he had discovered that she could 
distinguish a fine wine from an ordinary one and appreciate it, which 
is still more rare. Coulanges professed the opinion that nature had 
refused the gastronomical instinct to the weaker sex, and this lack 
constituted in his opinion a grave inferiority. 

Mme. Brehal was perfect, and the doctor, grateful for having been 
so well treated, would willingly have raised an altar as a thank- 
offering, in the midst of that famous park which he hoped to visit 
before taking leave of his hostess. 

Not a word had yet been said of the marvels celebrated by the 
architect, Capdenac, and they were now at the coffee, which w^as 
served in a recess adjoining the dining-room, furnished in an origi- 
nal manner, with hangings of black silk and large divans of the 
same stuff and lighted by stained. glass windows. They had spoken 
of the new plays, the races, the toilets displayed at the previous Tues- 
day at the Tneatre Frangais, the last elections to the Academy and 
even of M. Pasteur’s discourses, of everything in fact, except what 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


115 


would have specially interested George Courtenay and Charles 
Coulanges. 

Mme. Brehal had received them with a familiar cordiality which 
had astonished them both. The doctor had expected those polite 
phrases which are the usual accompaniment ot the beginning of an 
acquaintance, but the lady had simply held out her hand to him, 
thanking him for having come, as it she had known him for j^tars. 

George had counted upon friendly reproaches, and even a little 
upon discreet explanations. It would have been quite natural for 
her to have told him why she no longer stopped her carriage before 
the hotel in the Rue de Milan, and for her to have demanded why 
he had not come to see her for nearly a month, when he used to come 
three or four times a week. But there had been nothing of all this. 
Mme. Brehal received him as if they had not ceased to see each other 
every day; not a reproachful word, not a question; and what sur- 
prised him even more, not the shadow of an allusion to the duel or 
to Mile. Mezen c. 

George thought that the latter would be at the breakfast, but Mme. 
Brehal did not seem to remember that, the day before, at the riding- 
school, she had announced to the gentlemen that they would meet 
Mile. Mezenc at her house. 

When one of them tried to lead the conversation toward less gen- 
eral subjects she evaded it gayly, but obstinately. She had even 
launched into a learned discussion with the doctor upon the com- 
parative merits of Burgundy and Bordeaux; this was amusing 
enough for the doctor, but Goorge became very impatient. He was 
beginning to think that the breakfast was a mystification and he 
made up his mind not to leave the place without telling Mme. 
Brehal of the conduct ot M. de Pontaumur. But he could not de- 
cently broach this grave question before the doctor, and he wailed 
until the promised walk should furnish him with the opportunity 
for a Ute-d-Ute. Would this walk through her grounds take place? 
He almost doubted it, and yet he noticed the absence of cigars which 
the hostess never failed to oflter her guests when she gave a dinner. 
Ordinarily the men passed, on rising from the table, into a smoking- 
room furnished with the best Havana brands; but, to-day, Mme. 
Brehal had conducted them to a room much too small to permit 
them to light cigars. 

Coulanges also regretted being deprived of one ot his favorite 
pleasures, and he did not understand how so intelligent a woman 
could forget this indispensable accompaniment of coftee. She was 
pot slow to enlighten him. He had emptied his cup and placed it. 


116 


THE CONSEQX‘KHCES OF A DUEL. 


with a sigh, upon the massive silver waiter, when she said to him 
with a smile: 

“1 know what you want, gentlemen; but 1 desire not to leave 
you and 1 can only endure the odor ot tobacco in the open air. The 
time has come to give you the surprise which i have arranged tor 
you, and if you will follow me, you can smoke at your ease. Tou 
will find an assortment of cigars in the gallery, which we shall 
have to pass through to descend to the garden. 

“Is this surprise in the garden?'’ asked George. 

“You shall see,” responded Mine. Brehal, gayly. “All roads 
lead to Rome,” and she rose with a grace which delighted the doc- 
tor. He had theories upon the movements of women; he claimed 
that they had ten diflterent ways ot rising, sitting, walking and wear- 
ing their dresses. And he found Mme. Brehal adorable in her flow- 
ered silk morning dress, covered with avalanches of lace, and her 
little slippers, above which was revealed now and then a black silk 
stocking embroidered with red butterflies. 

At the end of the gallery, which was a regular winter garden, 
while the gentlemen were choosing their cigars, she donned a hat, 
which finished off Coulanges, a gem of a hat, lined with rose-colored 
silk covered with white lace and adorned with a garland ot rosebuds. 

She armed herself with a Chinese umbrella, round and flat, like a 
circular fan, the last mode of the day, and she placed her tiny foot 
upon the sand of the straight alley which traversed the park in all 
its length, passing under a continuous arch ot foliage. 

The doctor was so delighted at watching her that he remained a 
little behind, the better to admire her, exactly as a sportsman places 
himself at a distance the better to judge of the points of a thorough- 
bred horse. At this moment he scarcely thought ot M. de Pon- 
taumur. 

But George thought of him, and he took advantage of the occa- 
sion to speak. 

“ Do you know that 1 did not wish to come,” he said to Mme. 
Brehal in a low voice, “ and that 1 regret now having done so? 1 
thought that you would feel, like me, the necessity of an explanation 
after a month’s silence.” 

“ And till now we have spoken of only insignificant things,” in- 
terrupted Mme. Brehal. “ Have no fear, my friend, you will lose 
nothing for having waited.” 

“ Then why did you invite my friend Coulanges?” 

“ For various reasons, the first of which is that 1 feared being 


THE COi^SEQUEISrCES A DUEL. 117 

alone with you. We parted, one evening, just as we were both be- 
ginning to lose our heads.’' 

“ The scene to which you allude shall not be renewed, I promise 
you.” 

“ You are sure of yourself, it seems, but 1 am not so sure of my- 
self, and as 1 desired a serious talk with you, 1 wished the interview 
to take place in the open air,” replied Mme. lirehal, laughing. 

‘‘ What have you to say to me?” 

” You shall know soon; but let Monsieur Coulanges join us.” 

The doctor hastened forward and began to go into ecstasies over 
the beauty of the trees, as he could not express what he thought of 
the beauty ot the hostess. 

” Yes, 1 am very fond of walking here,” said Mme. Brehal. ” It 
Is liKe being in the country. 1 have arranged, by the way, a scrt of 
country-house, and that is what 1 am going to show you.” 

” The surprise?” asked Courtenay. X 

” A surprise which is not entirely one, for 1 spoke a little too 
much of it yesterday. But you scarcely expect what you are going 
to see. 1 have been committing follies.” 

” Suppose 1 should tell you that 1 know of what they consist,” 
murmured Courtenay. 

” You would astonish me considerably. My people themselves 
know absolutely nothing.” 

What I they have never peneirated this inclosure which you are 
transforming?” 

‘‘ Never! Mademoiselle Mezenc alone has the right to enter there, 
and we shall find her there. 1 hoped that she would breakfast with 
us, but she refused. I regretted it very much, for she is charming. 
Don’t you think so, monsieur?” 

This question was addressed to the doctor, who responded with a 
euloffy upon the perfections ot the young girl whom he had seen for 
the first time the day before. 

To know her is 1o love her,” said Mme. Brehal, ” and 1 have 
become more and more attached to her. But you can not guess 
where 1 am taking you, my dear George 1 am very sure that you 
have never noticed that door, below there, at the end ot the alley, 
in the middle of the wall covered with ivy.” 

” No, never,” murmured George, exchanging a look with 
Coulanges. It was about twenty feet before them, and it must open 
into the ground which M. de Pontaumur had entered by the Boule- 
vard Berthier. He could therefore have passed through this door 
and introduced himself into the garden of the hotel. 


118 THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 

“ 1 alone have the ke}’ to it,” said Mme. Brehal. 

** 1 can not understand why 1 have never noticed the door,” said 
Courtenay with intention. ‘’It seems to me that I have already 
walked through this alley as far as the wall.” 

“You are not mistaken,” replied Mme. Brehal. “ Y’ou have often 
walked here with me. But the door was hidden by heavy branches 
of ivy, and, to discover it, you would have to know it was there. 1 
scarcely knew it myself.” 

“ Then you never used it?” 

“No, never, before 1 undertook to transform the land yonder. 
Why should 1 have gone into a field, where there were neither 
flowors nor trees, i think, besides, that it would have been very 
difficult to have opened it. The lock and hinges were horribly 
rusty.” 

“ But they are so no longer, 1 hope, for the sake of your delicate 
hands.” 

“ No, no, my architect sent a man who put everything in good 
condition.” 

“ When?” 

“ Nearly a month ago, when the work was enough advanced for 
me to take pleasure in visiting it.” 

“ A month!” repeated Courtenay. “ That is singular.” 

“What is singular? You have not been in my garden for a 
month. Our walks naturally ceased duiing the winter; therefore, 
you could have perceived no change. And, really, my dear George, 
one would say that you suspected that a crime had been committed 
here. You question me with as much persistence as it you were a 
magistrate.” And as George protested by a gesture she continued, 
laughing gayly; “Did you imagine, by chance, that fine cavaliers 
took this road to have secret interviews with me? That would-be 
very romantic, 1 allow, but if 1 loved any one, 1 should wish him to 
enter by the grand entrance. 1 conceal neither my sentiments nor my 
acts, and I have always shown my preferences; you are not igno- 
rant of that, although you seem to have forgotten it.” 

The opportunity was a go'>d one to speak of M. de PoDtaumur’s 
nocturnal maneuvers, but the doctor was there, and Mme. Brehal 
had promised George a private interview. So he was silent and 
Coulanges hastened to say: 

“ Courtenay thinks, madame, that the door might serve a bur- 
glar,” 

“ Then he would have to have the key, and 1 have never confided 
mine to anyone, except to Mademoiselle Mezenc, who assuredly has 


THE COKSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


119 


not made bad use of it. It is the easiest way, at present, to enter 
the inclosure. 1 told you, 1 think, that there is an entrance on the 
I Rue de Courcelles. That is guaided by a porter, whom 1 have in- 
j stalled there some days ago.” 

, “A man you can trust, 1 suppose,” said George. 

I ” Entirely. Mme. Mezenc recommended him to me the day 1 went 
j to her house to ask her to allow her charming daughter to work for 
I me Therefore, there is no danger on that side, but my grounds are 
, only separated from the Boulevard Berthier by a board fence, high 
f enough and strong enough, it is true; an agile thief could scale 
i it, but he would find nothing to steal, for the pavilion 1 have built 
is not yet furnished, and 1 would defy any one to climb over the 
wall before us; it is twenty feet high, and as you see, il is spiked 
with iron on the top. Besides, 1 am going to build one just like 
this all about my domain. iSo, you see, gentlemen, my hotel-is im- 
pregnable.” 

This conversation had detained Mme. Brehal and her friends for 
n. few minutes under the trees of the alley. She now walked for- 
ward with a deliberate step toward the door, which so engrossed 
George Courtenay, and, handing him the key, begged him to open 
it, which he immediately proceeded to do. 

The two friends expected surprises, and they saw at the first glance 
that Capdenac had not exaggerated this terrestrial Eden. There 
were emerald grass-plots, tastefully arranged flower-beds, masses of 
well-chosen bushes; in the background were the Rue de Courcelles 
buidings, arranged like English cottages, of brick and wood, covered 
with creeping vines, and, in the center of the lawn, the famous 
pavilion of white marble, which had a charming effect upon the 
carpet of verdure. There was only one story above the ground floor, 
but. it was covered with ornamentation, carved pillars, volutes and 
plinths, arabesqued balustrades, and round and oval windows placed 
as if by chance. The whole was imposing, and four flights of 
marble-steps, one on each side, gave to the pseudo-Orienial construc- 
tion a character quite its own. 

” What do you think of my creation?” asked Mme. Brehal. 

For it is a creation; all the ideas are my own, and if you knew* 
how much trouble 1 had in persuading the architect to execute 
them, you would admire my strength of will.” 

” It is wonderful!” exclaimed the doctor, enthusiastically. 

The garden is well laid out, and the pavilion is very original,” 
said George, more calmly. 

” Unfortunately, the interior decorations are not finished, but you 


120 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


caD, at least, judge of what they will be The salon where Made- 
moiselle Mezenc works is done; it only needs the paintings which 
she began scarcely two weeks ago.” 

“ Do you think her capable ot finishing them?” 

” Cf^Ttainly. Why do you ask that?” 

“ Oh— because, if you take her every day to the riding-school or 
other amusements, she will have little time for painting.” 

” That has happened only once. Do you find anything wrong 
in it?” 

'' 1 have no right lo criticise Mademoiselle Mezenc’s actions. 1 
was a little surprised to meet her in the midst of that fashionable 
crowd, a few weeks after the death of a man whom she was on the 
point of marrying,” 

” 1 alone am culpable. She did not wish to go, but 1 dragged her 
there almost by force. If 1 thought myself obliged to excuse my 
conduct to you, my friend, 1 should limit myself to recalling to 
your mind what 1 said to you the evening of that unfortunate duel. 
In memory of Monsieur Saulieu, who was your friend, 1 promised 
to perform for this young girl the duties which had hitherto fallen 
to the charge of her aunt, Madame FYesnuy.” 

” And you have succeeded very quickly; Madame Fresnay com- 
plains bitterly of you.” 

” Dave you seen her?” 

” X met her yesterday at the Palais de ITnduslrie. She accosted 
me, and I was obliged to submit to the honor she did me; she said 
all the evil she could of her niece.” 

” And no good ot me, I suppose?” 

” She claimed that you wish to marry Mademoiselle Mezenc.” 

” She is right. 1 should be very glad to find Marianne a husband 
worthy of her. But 1 am in despair. She does not aid me at all. 

1 have tried in vain lo distract her, but her sadness stiil continues. 

1 confess, gentlemen, that 1 count upon you to brighten her up a 
little.” 

” 1 beg to be excused,” exclaimed Courtenay. 

« ” Very well; but Monsieur Coulanges will not excuse himself, 1 
am sure, and 1 know by experience, that he is the wittiest and most 
amiable of companions. 1 will not say lo you that, if it had not 
been for him, our breakfast would have been a melancholy affair, 
but — ” 

” You content yourself with thinking so.” 

” Perhaps, and 1 will not conceal that 1 have many things to par- 


121 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

don you tor. Is it not so, monsieur?’ ' addressing the doctor. “ You 
will be attentive to my protegee, will you not?” 

” It will not be a hard task. She is bewitching,” said the doctor, 
with a w^armth, which was of good augury. 

” Bewitching is the word. It is sufficient to know her to become 
attached to her. 1 do not speak ot lier beauty, which is apparent to . 
all eyes. Look, do you see her with her palette in her hand? She 
looks like the genius of painting.” 

All the windows were open, and, in the bright light of a clear 
spring day, the young girl’s profile could be seen, almost as George 
had seen it in her poor studio in the Rue Blanche, Only, she was 
standing, and her figure, admirably displayed by her black dress, 
was sharply defined against the wood-work. 

Mme. Brehal and her friends had walked on as they talked, 
and they had almost reached the marble steps of the pavilion. At 
the sound of their voices, Mile. Mezenc turned and came to the 
window. 

George was dazzled; he had never seen her so beautiful. As for 
the doctor, he stood in ecstasy before this virginal figure. 

“ My dear Marianne, you know these gentlemen. Will you per- 
mit them to enter? 1 ask you, because in your quality as an artist, 
you would have a perfect right not to allow any one to look at your 
work, before it is finished.” 

Mme. Brehal smiled as she spoke, and waved her hand to her 
friend, who answered sweetly: 

” You know well, madame, that 1 have no secrets from you, nor 
from your friends, and 1 am always happy to see you.” - 

” Then 1 will leave you Doctor Coulanges, to begin with, and 
take Monsieur Courtenay to visit my dairy. We wil rejoin you in 
a few minutes.” 

Coulanges was delighted with this arrangement. He thought 
that George and Mme. Brehal wanted to be alone, and for his own 
part, he asked nothing better than to talk with a pretty woman. 
He quickly mounted the steps and entered the summer salon, while 
his friend and his hostess walked away by a path which led round 
the pavilion. * 

” Y^ou told me that you wanted to speak seriouslv to me,” said 
George, when they were far enough to be sure that no one could 
hear them. 

“Yes, very seriously, too seriously, perhaps,” immediately re- 
sponded Mme. Brehal. ‘‘ But you, my friend, have you nothing to 
s‘ay to me?” 


1:^2 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL* 


“It 1 had nothing to say to yon/’ answered Courtenay, “I 
should not be here, you may well believe.” 

“That means, doubtless, that you w^ould have refused my in- 
vitation?” 

“ 1 should neither have refused not accepted it. 1 should not 
have come.’' 

“ And why, may 1 ask you, would you have been so impolite la 
me?” 

“ Because 1 have something to complain of.” 

“ Pardon me, it is 1 who have something to complain of. Will 
you explain to me how it happens that you have suddenly ceased to 
come to my house?” 

“ And will you explain to me why you have not deigned to in- 
quire what had become of me?” 

“ 1 could answer j^ou, that 1 am a woman, and that it is not my 
place to run after you. But we are good comrades, which permits 
us to depart from tlie conventional rules, and 1 abstain from in- 
voking the privilege of my sex. 1 prefer to tell you quite simply 
the truth, which is, that your last visit had— troubled me. 1 do not 
know any other word to express it. It seemed to me that the nature 
of our friendly relations was about to change. You see how frank 
1 am— and before proceeding further on that perilous road, 1 wished 
to take time to reflect.” 

“ Suppose 1 should give you the same reason to excuse my con- 
duct, what would you say?” 

“ 1 should believe you and I should not blame you. It is a seri- 
ous thing to replace an old and honest friendship by a livelier and 
less durable sentiment, even when the two parties are agreed as to 
the advantages of the change, and 1 do not know yet if that is the 
case. But 1 may say that 1 undoubtedly should not have delayed 
so long in asking you to come, it 1 had not thought that the death 
of your friend would give you duties to perform — ” 

“ Aou were mistaken. His provincial relatives took those off my 
shoulders.” 

“ 1 knew that they had taken possession of Monsieur Baulieu’e 
property. He left no will, then?” 

“ None has been found.” 

“ 1 regret it for dear Marianne’s sake, for 1 believe that he in- 
tended to leave her his fortune. And that leads me to tell Ihfri; I ■ 
have been also very much occupied with her. It was not without 
diflSculty that 1 persuaded hei to accept my patronage in society and 
the work in my pavilion. The negotiations with her and her 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


123 


mother, who is a worthy woman, took up all my days. Bui 1 have 
entirely succeeded at last, and 1 hope that we shall not be separated 
until the day she marries. 1 can, therefoie, think a little of my- 
self, and if 1 had not met you yesterday at the riding-school, I 
should have certainly written you to-day. You can not say, my 
dear George, that 1 was sulky with you, since I was the first to 
make advances. And, now, it is your turn to confess, concluded 
Mme. Brehal, with a smile. “ What have you to tell me, after this 
month of absence?*’ 

“That you have broken your word to me,” responded George, 
bluntly. 

“Good heavens! You commence by accusing rae of perjury. 
Where will you end?’’ 

“ Do not jest. It is very serious.” 

“ What did 1 swear to you? Deign to recall it to my memory.” 

“ 1 demanded no oath of you, you know very w’ell. But you 
promised me that you would cease to receive Monsieur de Pon^u- 
mur.” 

“ And 1 have kept my promise. He presented himself one 
AVednesday, when there were twenty persons with me. Mademoiselle 
Mezenc among them. 1 had foreseen the event, and my people had 
orders to tell him that 1 was not at home, which they did. The 
aftront which he received was known to all my friends; 1 explained 
to them why 1 did not wish to receive Monsieur de Pontauirur, as 
1 received Mademoiselle Mezenc, and they all approved. What 
more do you exact of me, my friend?” 

“ Nothing. 1 have no right to exact anything. But it is my 
duty to tell yon what has happened.” 

“You alarm me. 1 can conceive that Monsieur de Pontaumuc 
is not very well pleased, but 1 do not suppose that he has dared to 
calumniate me.” 

‘ ‘ He does worse. He compromises you. ’ ’ 

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Mme. Brehal, with a start. 

“ Yesterday at the club, where 1 dined, your architect related at 
the table, before twenty people, that Monsieur de Pontaumur passed 
his lime in watching what went on in your house.” 

“ What! In my house? Why, this is folly! What method does 
he employ to spy upon me in my house? Does he climb up into 
the trees of my garden?” 

“ No. He contents himself with mounting that hillock which 
you see from here,” said George, pointing to the mound of earth, 


124 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


the top of which could be perceived above the fence. “It was 
there that your architect surprised him in a contemplative posture.” 

Mme. Brehal burst into such a frank peal of laughter, that George,, 
who was observing her, was tempted to think that his suspicions 
had not common sense. 

” Keally,” she cried, “ this is the height of the ridiculous, and 1 
have much difficulty in believing that Monsieur de Pontaumur lias 
undertaken to play the sentimental lover, in full daylight, before nil 
the passers in the avenue. But at all events, it was not for me that 
he perched himself on that observatory, for I pass very little time 
in my new garden. 1 go once a day to see Marianne at work, but 1 
do not stay long, for fear of disturbing her. And now 1 think of 
it, she might perceive this man, who is odious to her, and 1 wish to 
spare her that annoyance. To-morrow, Monsieur Capdenac shall 
receive orders to immediately build the projected wall; 1 have told 
you, 1 think, that this wall will be twenty feet high, and we shall, 
therefore, be shielded from indiscreet observers. 1 wonder, moreover, 
for what purpose Monsieur de Pontaumur permits himself this ex- 
travagance; but if these are the serious things you have to tell me — ” 

“ No; that is not all.” 

” What . more, then?” asked Mme. Brehal, now thoroughly 
roused. 

” 1 am going to be brutal. 1 must be so. Know, then, that the 
evening 1 was here, the evening of the duel, my friend Ooulanges, 
who was waiting for me in a cab in the Avenue de Villiers, saw a 
man pass whom he thought he recognized, and whom he followed 
at a distance. This man took the Boulevard Berthier, and when he 
reached the fence which incloses this land, where we now are, he 
dre V from his pocket a key with which he opened a gate over there 
in the corner, and entered.” 

“Well! It was doubtless some pupil of my architect’s, or Mon- 
sieur Capdenac himself. 1 know that he often enters that way, and 
he had perhaps forgotten something in the pavilion.” 

“ No; it was Monsieur de Pontaumur.” 

“What? Your friend dreamed that; or he Was 'deceived hy a 
resemblance.” 

“ He declares he is sure of the tact.” 

“ But you? Did you also see Monsieur de Pontaumur?” 

“No. 1 waited a certain 4ength of time, and 1 should have 
waited until he came out ; but Coulanges prevailed on me to depart. ” 

“ And you did not come to warn my people, or to warn me^ 
which would have been better?” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


125 


“ 1 wished to, but Coulanges made objections to which 1 yielded. 

“ What were they?” 

He lepresented to me that the man could not be a thief.” 

“ And lie was not one, assuredly, for there is nothing to steal in 
the pavilion — nothing, except Mademoiselle Mejjenc’s paintings, 
which are scarcely begun. It was, 1 repeat, my dear George, one 
of Monsieur Capdenac’s pupils.” 

George was silent, hut he regarded Mme. Brehal fixedly. 

“ At last, 1 understand,” she said, after a pause, in a voice which 
she vainly endeavored to steady; ‘‘you thought it was my lover. 
And what a lover! Monsieur de Pontaumur, who killed your friend 
in a duel, and whom 1 have forbidden my house! Ah! I confess 
that 1 did not expect to be accused by you of such infamy, and if—” 

She stopped, and her eyes filled with tears. 

‘‘No, 1 did not accuse you,” cried Courtenay, greatly moved; 
” 1 wf.s revolted by the suspicions which besieged me, and yet 1 
could not succeeii in driving them away. If you only knew what 1 
have sufl^ered since that accursed day!” 

** And this was tiie reason you did not come?” 

“And 1 should never have come again, if Capdenac’s imprudent 
words had not made me fear that I’eports would be spread about 
you, which it was necessary to stop. 1 wished to tell you what I 
knew. 1 have told you, but I do not ask any explanations from 
you.” 

“ You can ask them, my friend, and I can not give them to you. 
How can 1 explain what 1 do nut comprehend myself? All that 1 
can think is, that Monsieur de Pontaumur seeks to ruin my i*eputa« 
tion. ” 

“ 1 think liRe you, and if you authorize me to put an end to it—” 

“ The remedy would be worse than the disease. The publicity 
of a quarrel would serve his purpose. 1 can not prevent him from 
wandering about the streets near my grounds, but 1 can take meas- 
ures so that he can not enter them. That gate in the fence shall be 
closed this very day. 1 alone have the key of the garden. 1 will 
also tell the porter, who guards the entrance on the Rue de Cour- 
ceiles, that a man has entered the inclosure by night, and that he 
must keep a close watch. I will even place one of my domestics in 
the pavilion, arm him, and order him to fire on any intruder. What 
more can 1 do?” 

“ Nothing,” replied George. 

Mme. P»rebal raised her eyes, still wet with tears, and said with 
un emotion which she did not seeu to hide; 


126 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


“ Yes, my friend, 1 can do more. There is one means of cutting 
short the outrageous and ridiculous maneuvers of Monsieur de 
Poutaumur, and also to end a situation which—” 

“ Take that means, then.” 

” Will you ai^ me?” asked Mme. Brehal, half-smiling; ”1 can 
not employ this means by myself alone. Two are needed.” 

George turned and looked at Mme. Brehal, but she met his gaze 
frankly. 

They had arrived quite near the cottages which marked the limit 
of the grounds on the side of the Rue de Courcelles. These con- 
structions in the English style were completely finished, but they 
had not yet been put to the use for which they were destined. The 
porters’ lodge was beyond; and at the spot where they had stopped, 
no one could hear them. 

The sky was cloudless, and the air was soft; it was a day for love 
and lovers’ confidences. 

” Y'es,” continued Mme. Brehal, ” two are needed. Alone, 1 
could only prevent this man from pursuing me, for, in acting as he 
has, he has had a purpose, and I recognize what that purpose is. 
He wished to force me to marry him.” 

“ He has every audacity, then,” murmured Courtenay. 

“Yes. He commenced, as 1 told you, by being very attentive to 
me. I could not be offended ; he has a name and position in the 
world. 1 know women among my friends who would have advised 
me to marry him if 1 had consulted them, but 1 took care not to. 1 
limited myself to discouraging Monsieur de Pontaumur, and 1 did 
it in such a way that he understood me, and his assiduities ceased. 
It was then that he must have conceived the idea of attaining his 
ends by scandalous means.” 

” He acted in the same fashion with Mademoiselle Mezenc.” 

” ISot exactly. He slandered her publicly to revenge himself for 
her disdain. Marianne has told me all; and since 1 have known 
the real cause of that pitiful duel, 1 have had a horror of Monsieur 
de Pontaumur. But, with me, he proceeds differently, because it is 
not me he covets, but my fortune. He would never have married 
Mademoiselle Mezenc, who was poor.” 

” He must have had a very poor opinion of her.” 

“ He has learned to know Jier. She treated him as he deserved, 
and you know what a revenge he took. But he does not know me 
yet! He hopes to intimidate me. He thinks that by having my 
name mixed up with his, he will end by persuading me that he 
really loves me, and, above all, he hopes that the rumor of his 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 


127 


lover-like extravagances will be spread abroad. Tou have just told 
me that llie}^ have already been remarked. Monsieur Capdenac has. 
seen him planted upon an eminence, and contemplating my garden. 
Monsieur Coulanges has seen him entering this inclosure at night. 

“ Do you think, then, that it was indeed he whom the doctor sur- 
prised*'” 

‘‘ 1 am not sure of it; but 1 am very much inclined to believe it, 
since 1 know what he does in daylight. What his plan is, and how 
he obtained the key, are mysteries which will, perhaps, be explained 
some day. But what chiefly cbncerns me is to put an end to his 
shameful actions, and there is but one way— to marry. When I am 
married. Monsieur de Pontaumur will see that he is beaten, or, if 
by any possibility he should continue, he will find some one to call 
him to account in the person of my husband. 1 need a defender.” 

” Do you think that 1 am not ready to defend you?” 

” 1 mean an authorized defender. By what title would you un- 
dertake my defense now?” 

After a silence of a few seconds, Mrre. Brehal continued in a less 
assured voice: 

‘‘And now, my friend, 1 come to the diihcult part. You have 
guessed, 1 am sure, the object of this discourse, and, before you an- 
swer, let me tell you how 1 have come to speak to you as 1 have, I 
have reflected much during the last three preeks, and so have you, 
1 thinK. Our decision will not be taken lightly. We knew each 
other well, but we needed to prove our feelings by a separation. The 
experiment has been made, and 1 do not blush to declare that 1 have 
suffered from not seeing you. You have acknowledged that you 
suffered also; you have even shown me that you were jealous.” 

“ Madly jealous,” exclaimed George. ‘‘We can not live without 
one another. If you love me as 1 do you, there is no reason why we 
should not be happy forever.” 

“ 1 permit you to ask my hand,”' said Mme. Brehal, with a rav- 
ishing smile. 

George already held this hand in his, and he raised it to his lips. 

‘‘ Then, you no longer suspect me of making appointments with 
Monsieur de Pontaumur?” demanded Mme. Brehal, gayly. 

” And you no longer suspect me of marrying you for your two 
hundred thousand francs a year?” retorted George, also laughing. 

Mme. Brehal’s frankness had cleared up the situation in an in- 
stant, as th3 first ra}’’ of the rising sun pierces the morning mist. 

‘‘ We shall have cause to bless that horrble Pontaumur,” said 
the young widow. ‘‘ If your friend had not seen him slip into my 


128 


THE COKSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


rural domain, you would have returned the next day, and we should 
perhaps never have perceived that we were necessary to one another. 
It was the separation that enlightened us as to our real feelings. 1, 
at least, knew well that I loved you, but having only very vague 
notions as to love — 5 ’'ou need not smile, monsieur!’' 

1 was not smiling, 1 assure you,” exclaimed George. “How 
could 1 smile at an error into which 1 fell myself? 1 thought for a 
long time that 1 felt only friendship for you, but the evening Cou- 
langes tol:! me that a man had entered, 1 knew that 1 was mistaken, 
for my heart was devoured with furious jealousy.” 

“ 1 am a little bit angry with you, not for being jealous, but for 
being so of a man 1 despise. 1 forgive you, though, and all’s well 
that ends well. But Monsieur Coulanges must have a singular 
opinion of me.” 

“ No, for he is persuaded that Pontaumur was going to see one of 
your maids. He told me so at once.” 

“ 1 think that he is mistaken. My maids are all good girls. But I 
am not sorry that he thought so. I wish 1 could be useful to him. If 
he should fall in love with one of my friends, I would plead his 
cause, 1 assure you, and, by the way, 1 may as well confide to you 
that in inviting him 1 had an idea; 1 hoped that dear Marianne 
woultl please him, and then he would try to please her.” 

“ You were wrong to hope so.” 

“Why? Monsieur Coulanges is rich enough not to care for a 
fortune.” 

“ He has sworn never to marry.” 

“ Bah! a man swears to remain a bachelor, and when he meets the 
woman, he marries very soon. You yourself, my dear George, must 
have taken that oath, and yet, you see! Now, Marianne is the ideal 
woman.” 

“ Shall I confess that I had guessed your intentions and sounded 
the doctor, and (hat his answer was despairingly cleai? He thinks 
Mademoiselle Mezenc charming, but he has not the slightest desire 
to make her his wife.” 

“ 1 am aorr 3 \ Does it please you to announce the news to your 
friend, to make him ashamed of his hard heart?” 

“ 1 was just going to ask you it 1 might.” 

“ Remember that after this 'declaration you can not withdraw.” 

“ Nor you either. That is what 1 wish.” ^ 

“ Then come and present him to your future wife and I will pre- 
sent Marianne to my husband. You are not very anxious, 1 sup- 
pose, to visit my dairy, to-day?” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


129 


*‘Iam only anxious never to leave you,” murmured Geoige, 
leaning over till bis mustache brushed her cheek. 

” Take care,” she said, trembling. ” Some one is coming.” 

George turned and saw a footman leaving the pavilion. 

” There is your secret fled,” he said, laughingly. ” Your people 
now know the way here.” 

‘‘ 1 must have left the door open, but what matters il ? Madame 
Brehal could have secrets ; Madame Courtenay shall have none. 
Jean has a letter. If you ask me to read it, you shall break the 
seal. ' ’ 

” And if it is for me, you shall open it,” returned George. 

it was for him. The footman said that it had been brought by 
M. Courtenay’s valet. He was about to explain perhaps how he had 
ventured upon forbidden ground, flut Mme. Brehal immediately 
dismissed him. 

” It is from my notary,” said George, after glancing at the ad- 
dress. 

” Then 1 do not insist on opening it,” said Slme. Brehal, laugh- 
ing. ‘‘Butl do insist on your reading it without delay. Your 
valet would not have come here after you if the message were not 
pressing.” 

” 1 can not understand. 1 have no business with my notary. Stilly 
since you wish — ” 

George had no sooner read it than his face changed. 

‘‘ Ah!’' he cried, ” here is very good and very unexpected news. 
Maurice Saulieu’s will has been found.” 

‘‘Monsieur Saulieu’s will found!” exclaimed Mme. Brehal. ” I 
did not know that it was lost.” 

” No one knew what had become of it,” answered George, “ 1 
thought 1 had told you that.” 

” No, or, rather 1 understood that he had made none.’* 

” That IS what 1 Anally thought, also, although he said something 
about it in a note, but an incomplete note, unfortunately. Read 
this, and you will see that all is right up to a certain point; there 
are restrictions, but your protegee is Maurice’s heiress.” 

” Marianne! Oh, George, this is a happy day! It seemed to me 
that something was lacking to our happiness. It is complete, now 
that Marianne has her share in it. Read that blessed letter aloud. 
It will be sweet to hear your voice announce the unexpected news.” 

” Well! This is what ray notary, who wifs also Maurice’s, writes: 

‘‘‘My dear Monsieur, —You will be very much surprised to 
learn that the will ot 3^our friend, Monsieur Baulieu, reached niQ 


130 


THE COKSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL, 


this morning by post. 1 have examined it carefully and find it per 
fectly regular. It is dated, signed and drawn up in Monsieur Sau 
lieu’s band You are appointed executor, and the universal legate 
is Mademoiselle Marianne Mezenc. It is very simple and there is m 
codicil, but the testator has added a singular cl.iuse, which 1 tran 
scribe literally: “ On condition that Mademoiselle Mezenc marrie 
the man she loves.” The will is none the less valid, for this od( 
clause Can only be considered as the expression of a more or les 
realizable wish, and not as a condition sine qua non, I only fea 
that the larfy production of this paper may raise certain difficulties 
The natural heirs have been placed in possession, and they nrobabl; 
have disposed ot much of the property. It is probable, besides, tha 
they will contest the authenticity of a will which comes by an un 
accustomed route and from no one knows whom. There are, how 
ever, measures to be taken immediately, and 1 have hastened to in 
form you of what has happened, and to beg you to come as soon at 
possible to my office. 1 want to see you before acting, and by usin^ 
any indications Monsieur Baulieu may have given you, we (;an per- 
haps discover what became of his will which re-appears in so unex- 
pected a fasiiion. 1 shall be in my office all day, and 1 shall not 
go out this evening.’ ” 

” You must go, George,” exclaimed Mme. Brehal. 

“ Yes, certainly,” said George, although it is very hard for me 
to leave you at this moment. But what do you think of this strange 
event? Whence comes this will which 1 have sought so long and 
which an anonymous sender addresses to the notary, through the 
post, like an insignificant letter?” 

” From a friend to whom Monsieur Saulieu had confided it, 1 sup- 
pose.” 

” Impossible. Saulieu had no other friend but me, and, besides, 
the note 1 found in his pocket-book leaves no doubt. His will was 
deposited somewhere, in a place wheie I was to find it and take it to 
the notary. By a lamentable fatality, the ball which kilKd Maurice 
tore the paper, and I have not been able to find out what he did with 
the will. It was not because 1 did not search for it, for 1 thought 
of It constantly for a week.” 

” Some one found it by chance.” 

‘‘ But that some one would not hide himself. He would have 
taken the trouble to bring it himself to the notary and explain how 
he found it.” 

” At all events, he is not malicious, for he might have cast it into 
the fire or kept it without showing it, and, on the contrary, he has- 
tened to produce it. But what does it matter to us who it is, since 
Marianne inherits?” ® 

“Yes, if the inheritance has not already disappeared. Maurice’s 
country relatives arrived at the first news of his aeath and hastened 


THE CO^TSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


131 


to sell all that belonged to him. 1 think, however, that there will 
he found at his banker’s entries which will permit us to know at 
least the approximate amount of his fortune, and then his cousins 
can be forced to disgorge. But there will certainly be a lawsuit if 
Mademoiselle Mezenc decides to claim her rights, which 1 doubt.” 

‘‘*Why do you doubt it?” 

‘‘ Because, from the first day, she has declared that she would not 
accept the fortune.” 

” That is true, she told me so later, but' it would be folly, and 1 
shall persuade her to accept. Why, with this fortune she could 
marry whom she liked, and who knows it your friend Coulanges— ” 

“You forget the condition imposed by poor Maurice. He wished 
Mademoiselle Mezenc to marry the man she loved.” 

“ And the doctor is not lhat man, evidently. The clause is very 
queer.” 

“ Didn’t 1 tell you that she never loved Maurice, and that Maurice 
hnew it? Perhaps he also knew that she loved another. He sought 
death by picking a quarrel with Monsieur de Pontaumur, and, 
chivalrous as he was, he very probably wished to assure Made- 
moiselle Me sene’s happiness.” 

“ That would be sublime; and she must know the man Monsieur 
Saulieu wished her to marry. I shall question her.”, 

“ 1 do not believe she will answer you. But she must be in- 
formed at once. Before rejoining her, however, let us return to 
ourselves. You may believe me to be very selfish, but I declare that 
1 care more for my own happiness than for that of Mademoiselle 
Mezenc.” 

“ Your happiness will not fly away,” said Mme. Brehal, laugh- 
ing. “We are going to announce it to Monsieur Coulanges and 
Marianne, and if you think that that is not enough to pledge myself, 
I will proclaim it to all my friends to-morrow. But you should 
have said our happiness. Do you think that I have no share in 
it?” 

George, overcome with joy, made a movement which proved that 
Mme. Brehal was right in subjecting to the open air the passionate 
outbursts she foresaw. He opened his arms to dfaw her to his 
breast, but she could, if not calm, at least arrest him by a gesture, 
pointing to the windows of the salon, where the doctor was flitting 
about Mile. Mezenc’s easel. 

“ Come, George,” said Mme. Brehal, leaning upon his arm, “1 
permit you to call me Gabrielle. That concession ought to satisfy 
jou,. monsieur my husband.” 


They soon reached the pavilion, and the doctor received them 
with a beaming face. 

Mile. Mezenc, for a wonder, appeared very gay. She had de- 
scended from the elevated chair where she sat to paint, and she was 
laughing at the compliments which Dr. Coulanges had lavished 
upon her beauty, her wit, and even upon her talent, which was 
doubtful enough. The four seasons, with which she proposed to 
decorate the salon of the marble pavilion, were to occupy lour rather 
narrow panels, and the artist had undertaken to represent them 
only by their attributes: flowers, fruits, and other natural products; 
perhaps she did noi feel clever enough to attempt allegorical figures. 

As she had commenced with spring, she was copying an immense 
bunch of lilacs, arranged in a silver basket. 

“ Come to my rescue, monsieur,’" she said to Courtenay; “ help 
me to defend my lilacs against your friend, who pretends that it is 
an ugly flower.” 

” Coulanges is a man of paradoxes,” responded George; ” but 1 
shall not enter into an argument, for 1 come to take leave of you, 
mademoiselle. 1 must go immediately to the notary of Maurice 
Saulieu.” 

At this name Marianne’s expression changed. 

” He has received my unhappy friend’s will, the will w^hich had 
disappeared, and which makes Mademoiselle Mezenc sole legatee.” 

” Me! Maurice Saulieu’s heir!” 

“Yes, my dear Marianne,” said Mme. Brehal, ” and 1 am very 
glad to have been the first to receive this good news.” 

“ I thank you, madame, but 1 have no right to this property, and 
1 refuse it.” 

Why? Monsieur {Saulieu was about to marry you—” ^ 

” 1 explained, a long time ago, the reasons of my refusal to Mon- 
sieur Courtenay, and 1 beg him to make my refusal known to the 
notary.” 

” 1 will do so, since you wish it, mademoiselle, but my declara- 
tion will have no value; to refuse an inheritance there are certain 
formalities to be fulfilled.” 

”1 will fulfill them.” 

” Marianne, my dear child,” said Mme. Brehal, ” 1 understand 
and admire the feeling you have, but you are not obliged to decide 
this very moment, and 1 have another piece of news to tell you, a 
piece of news which, I am certain, jmu will receive with more joy 
than that of the discovery of Monsieur Saulieu’s will. 1 have taken 
a great resolution. 1 am going to be married.” 


“You, madame!” murmured Maiianne, turning very pale. 
“Yes, and you guess to whom, do you not?” continued Mme. 
Brehal, with a glance at George. 

“No — no. 1 do not guess. ” 

“ Then, let me present to you Jlonsieur Courtenay, my future 
husband. He was the friend, the best friend of your fiance, and 1 
hope that you will be always my best friend.” 

“And I—l hope that you will be happy, madame,” said Mile. 
Mezenc, almost overcome with emotion. 

George hastened to pul an end to this scene, which the doctor was 
observing with a very attentive eye, although he was very preoccu- 
pied, for private reasons, with the discovery of the wilL 
Mme. Brehal alone saw nothing; love is blind. 


CHAPTEK VII. 

The first day of happiness is the sweetest in the life of a lover, 
but this day has a to-morrow, and it sometimes happens that the to- 
morrow cuts short the haj^piness of the previous day. 

This was certainly not George Courtenay’s case twenty- four 
hours after he had become engaged to Mme. Brehal. On the con- 
trary, he felt as if he had a new lease of life. Delivered from the 
cruel doubts,, the weight of which he had borne for three weeks, 
he saw the future through a veil of rose-color, and he was amazed 
that he had been so slow to comprehend that his intimacy with the 
lovely widow of the Avenue de Viliiers could only end in marriage.. 
And, as often happens when one has hesitated for a long time, he 
wished to pa?s at once from resolution to execution. The scene m 
the park affected him at moments like a dream, one of those dreams 
with less wavering outlines than others, and which give the dreamer 
the illusion of reality and the memory of which is not dispelled on 
awakening. Those vows exchanged between the Oriental kiosk 
and the English cottages still rang in his ears, and yet he wondered 
if it w^ere true that she was going to be his forever, the Gabrielle 
whom he had loved for a year, without being willing to acknowl- 
edge it 10 himself.- He thought only of her, and the affair of the 
recovered will did not interest him much more than the private sen- 
tifnents of Mile. Mezenc. 

After the indispensable visit to Maurice Saulieu’s notary, George 
had shut himself up in his house to enjoy his happiness, anfl he did 
not go out, as he did not dare to return to Mme. Brehal, who perhaps 



was not sorry to remain alone after so many sweet emotions. He 
had even forgotten his friend Coulanges, ^vhom he had left with the 
two ladies in the marble pavilion. 

He went to bed very late, and in the morning a gracious little 
note, signed “ Gabrielle,’' arrived to fill him with joy. Mine. 
Brehal begged him tq join her that evening in her box at the opera, 
and asked him it he would like to accompany her the next day to 
the fashionable shops. This desire to occupy herself with the in- 
dispensable preparations for a wedding delighted him, and gave him 
an idea. He had seen at his jeweler’s a day or two before a beau- 
tiful bracelet, and he thought he might permit himself to offer it to 
her that evening at the opera. He hastened to dress and was about 
to go out to buy it, when Coulanges arrived with a face full of busi- 
ness. Coulanges was the only fiiend that he cared to see at that 
moment; he received him with open arms and commenced by ask- 
ing him what had become of him since the day before. 

“If 1 should tell you that 1 had passed all my time in running 
after a damsel who belongs to the stage you would not believe me,” 
answered the doctor. . 

“ Oh, yes, indeed 1 tvould,” laughed George. 

“ You needn’t laugh. When you know my reasons 1 think you 
will approve of me. But first let me congratulate you, my dear 
fellow. Madame Brehal is lovely, and she loves you, 1 know. 1 
read it in her eyes, from the commencement of breakfast, and when 
she came to announce that you had come to an agreement, 1 saw 
that she longed to throw herself into your arms.” 

“ You exaggerate, my dear Coulanges. But 1 acknowledge that 
1 am very happy, for 1 adore her, and 1 sought foolishly to prove 
to myself the contrary. She, on her side, doubted if she had in- 
spired in me a serious feeling. And, from misunderstanding to mis- 
understanding, we might have remained all our lives loving each 
other without speaking of it. An explanation was needed to drive 
away the clouds.” 

“ Confess that 1 contributed a little to this happy ending. If 1 
had not persisted so much you would not have gone, Madame 
Brehal would have been angry, and, who knows, perhaps you 
would never have seen her again.” 

“ That is true, and 1 thank you cordially for having forced my 
hand. But 1 owe you some information, for the foolish idea abput 
Monsieur de Pontaumur is set at rest.” 

“ Let us bet that it was what' l thought in the first place, a cham- 
ber-maid. 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL, 


1^5 


“ No, Aladame Brehal says not. But she took so calmly the 
story I told her ot your nocturnal adventure that 1 blush now at 
haviog suspected her.” 

” What! did you drag me into it?” 

“ 1 couldn’t help it, since you saw the man enter the tenced in 
inclosure.” 

‘‘ But what will Madame Brehal Ihink of me? 1 am afraid that 
1 shall seem in her eyes a curious fool and become her pet aver- 
sion.” 

“ M'hy so? !She thinks that you have done her a service, for it 
was important for her to be warned of this man’s maneuvers. Let 
me tell you what we think, she and 1.” 

“ What 1 think also, very probably.” 

” It appears to us to be evident that he seeks to compromise her, 
to revenge himself for having been disdained and finally dismissed. 
Last 'Wednesday she sent word, before twenty persons, to forbid 
him to enter her house. His sentimental altitudes upon the top of 
the mound of earth have had no other end, and he would not, per- 
haps, be sorry if 1 should resent his behavior on Madame Brehal’s 
account.” 

” That would be a very foolish move.” 

“ Yes; and 1 shall take care not to make it. There is a simpler 
means of putting an end to his extravagances, and that is to build 
a wall ^wenty feet high, whicli will very shortly be done. His en- 
trances through the gate will also be stopped by having the gate 
nailed up. At present, w^e can not explain how he obtained the 
key, but we shall end by knowing, perhaps. He must have taken 
an impression of the lock or used a skeleton key. Now, what was 
he going to do there? Upon this point an idea has come to me. I 
think that on the evening you encountered him, he was roaming as 
usual about the hotel. He must have seen you leave your cab and 
enter it again. Then, thinking rightly that you would be very 
much astonished at seeing him at such an hour at the end of the 
Avenue de Yilliers, and hoping that you would follow him, he ar- 
ranged to pass quite near your carriage-—” 

“ It is probable, and 1 was right in prevei^ng you from giving 
the alarm. It Madame Brehal’s domestics had surprised him hid- 
den in the pavilion, there would have been a frightful scandal, and 
that is exactly what he wanted. Y'ou would not believe, by the 
way, how Mademoiselle Mezenc detests him; she spoke of him to 
me with horror.” 


“ She mustj indeed, have many reasons to hate him. But, since 
you have spoken ot her, tell me what you think of her.” 

“ I found her absolutely charming. She is rarely beautiful, she 
has much wit and much heart, too much heart, perhaps.” 

” Then she pleases you. When 1 tell that to Madame Brehal. 
she will be very glad.” 

“ Good heavens! Has she any intentions in regard to me?” 

” Matrimonial, my dear fellow. There, the secret is out. But I 
am not uneasy. You will know how to defend yourself.” 

‘‘Yes, by Jove! And 1 shall have no difficulty, for 1 have an 
idea that the young lady's heart is already captured. She loves 
some one, and she loves without hope. 1 guessed that in talking to 
her. And it certainly is not 1 who has inspired her with the passion 
which has taken possession of her.” 

” At all events, her husband, will not be unlucky, tor Maurice left 
her a very pretty fortune. He was richer than 1 thought.” 

“ But she refuses this fortune. She said so before you, and she 
repeated it again and again after your departure. Madame Brehal 
tried to persuade her that she ought to accept it. but it was of no 
use.” 

” So long as she has not renounced our friend’s legacy by an au- 
thentic deed, she can always change her mind,” said George, shak- 
ing his head. 

” Then, you do not believe in the sincerity of her apparent disin- 
terestedness?” asked the doctor, quickly. 

” 1 have no fixed opinion upon that point; I have only* doubts. 
But what do you think of this resurrection of the will?” 

” It is precisely about that that 1 have many things to tell you. 
You have seen the notary?” 

‘‘Yesterday, on leaving Madame BrehaTs house. He under- 
stands nothing, and, in fact, it is incomprehensible. The will 
reached him by post. The address, in a writing we neither of us 
knew, bore the stamp of the Madeleine office. Inside the envelope 
there was no line of explanation. The sender has preserved the 
most absolute incognito. ” 

” But, by seeking for him, it seems to me that he can be found. 
You, who knew Saulieu intimately, must know what persons he 
might have confideiTit to.” 

‘‘ There was no one. 1 was the one who was to take it to the 
notary. The incomplete note 1 Jonnd in his pocket-book is evidence 
ot that. The will was in his rooms, 1 am almost certain. 1 searched 
there the day after the duel, and 1 could not discover it. Two days 


THE COHSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


137 


after, his provincial cousins arrived and took posssession of all that 
belonged to him, and 1 then retired, as you know.” 

“ Do you suppose that these relations could have found the paper 
which disinherited them and were honest enough to send it to the 
notary?*’ 

“ Oh! no. 1 am sure, on the contrary, that if they had become 
possessed of it they would have burned it. One person alone was 
interested in its production, and that person is Mademoiselle 
Mezen c.” 

“ Who refuses to benefit by it, and who, perhaps, was ignorant 
that she had been made sole legatee.” 

” She knew, at least, that the will existed. 1 told her so.” 

** But what reason could she have for producing it. since she 
will not accept the legacy?” 

” Perhaps to show how disinterested she is by renouncing it 
publicly.” 

“You think it was she who sent it, then? The devil! You 
open strange horizons before me.” 

“ My dear fellow, I affirm nothing. 1 sfmply use my reason, and 
my reason leads me to think that Mademoiselle Mezenc might very 
well have something to do with this mysterious turning-up of the 
will.” 

“Because she is the heir,” murmured the doctor, thoughtfully. 
“ But, 1 too, use my reason, and 1 wonder in the first place why 
she should have waited three weeks before inclosing this will to 
the notary,” 

“ Probably because she did not have it.” 

“ Then she must have found it some time after Baulieu’s death. 
Has she been to his rooms?” 

“Not that 1 know of. The seals were put on immediately, and 
they were taken ofi at the request of his relations. ” 

“Who doubtless took good care that no stranger should enter 
their cousin’s domicile. It must be supposed, then, that one of 
them, seized with a sudden friendship for Saulieu’s fiancee, sacri- 
ficed his own interest to enrich her.” 

“ That is highly improbable. None of them knew her.” 

“ Or, perhaps one of her friends, by some unexplained chance, 
discovered the will.” 

“ 1 do not know that she has any friends. But what is the use 
of woirying yourself? It is time lost, doctor, and foi my part 1 
confess the problem does not interest me. 1 have done my duty, 
1 went to the notary, because he summoned me. I told him that. 


as Maurice had appointed me executor, 1 would acquit myself of 
the obligation as well as possible; but I also pointed out to him tha" 
it did not depend upon me to make the relatives disgorge nor to in- 
duce Mademoiselle Mezenc to accept the property. He promised to 
see to this, and he will do whatever is best. The rest is of little 
consequence to me; and just now 1 have too much else to occupy 
my mind to guess enigmas. Tou, who are not going to be mar- 
ried, can try, if it amuses you.” 

“ It does not amuse me precisely, but it makes me uneasy. And 
since you see no reason why 1 should not mix myself up in it, you 
can answer me one more question.” 

“Goonl” 

“ Do you know if poor Saulieu’s furniture has been sold?” 

‘‘Oh! of course. The cousins lost no time in converting into 
money what they could not carry away. There will be some diffi- 
culty in recovering the property from them, if Mademoiselle Mezenc 
claims it.” 

“ But the furniture?” 

‘‘Oh, the furniture was not worlh much. Maurice was a sort of 
stoic who despised luxury and who had only the most ordinary 
stufit in his rooms. 1 even remember that fiancee, who did not 
share his ideas at all, sometimes scolded him about it.” 

*‘ Then the heirs did not take away the furniture?” 

*‘ ISo, certainly not. They sent it to the Hotel Drouot.” 

“When?” exclaimed the doctor. 

“ 1 don’t know exactly. Stay! Yes, the notary told me that the 
sale took place quite recently.” 

“ The day before yesterday, perhaps?” 

“ 1 can’t tell precisely. But if you want to know 1 can ask the 
notary. But what the deuce do you mean by all these questions, 
you interrogation point of a doctor?” 

“You shall know. 1 have not finished. Did you ever notice at 
Saulieu’s a sort of chiffonier made of ebony?” 

“ Never. Maurice had nothing of that sort.” 

“ The one 1 speak of was old, or, at least, had that appearance. 
It was in bad condition.” 

“ Then I am certain that it did not belong to Maurice, for Mau- 
rice cared only for new things. If he had had such a thing he 
would have got lid of it.” 

“It is singular; 1 imagined — ” 

“ What? that Maurice had artistic feelings? You are quite mis- 


THE CO]SrSEQUE]SrCES OE A DUEL. 


139 


taken. Mauiice was very well educated, and very intelligent, but 
he did not appreciate antiquities. One can’t be everything. ” 

“But he was tond of books V” 

“Yes; he was not a large buyer, but those which he possessed 
were well chosen, and he took great care of them.” 

“ Then he had a book-case to keep them in?” 

“ INot precisely. His study was furnished with wooden shelves 
which contained some hundreds of books. His favorite volumes — 
those he read constantly— he kept in a queer sort of a ihing, half- 
shelves and half-drawers, of moderate dimensions, and veiy poor 
quality, which was placed by his bedside.” 

“ 1 thought you snid just now he did not like antiquities?” 

“ But he valued this as a souvenir.” 

“Was not this book-case fastened to a table?” 

“Yes; and the feet of this table were what gave it its value in his 
eyes.” 

“ They were newer than the rest of it, were they not?” 

“Yes. How did you know?” 

“ Wait a minute. Describe the object, please.” 

“ As 1 remember, it came to Maurice from his uncle, 'who died 
last year, and Maurice had kept it, 1 don’t know why, for it was 
of no use. Two of the feet were gone.” 

“ And he had new ones made?” 

“ Among other talents. Mademoiselle Mezenc has that of making 
pretty little things of wood and ivory. She has at her house a ma- 
chine, very old-fashioned to-d jy, a sort of turning-lathe.” 

“ And it was Mademoiselle Mezenc who turned the feet of the ta- 
ble?” 

“ Exactly: and Maurice, delighted with the gift, would not have 
parted 'with his book-case for all the gold in the world. But 1 wish 
you would tell me how these details can interest you?” 

“ Suppose 1 should tell you that the heirs sold this piece of furni- 
ture?” 

“ Well, what of it? They had no reason for keeping relics.” 

“ And that 1 was present when it was sold?” 

“ Where? at the Hotel Drouot?” 

“ You no longer remember, then, the conversation that took place 
the other day, when we were dining at the club?” 

“ 1 wasn’t listening. 1 only remember what Capdenac, the archi- 
tect, said about Ponlaumur.” 

“ Then you did not hear what that idiot of a Yervelle yelled out 


from one end of the table to the other, asking me what I was doing 
at the sale with an actress of the Bouffes?” 

“ No; and 1 don’t see — ” 

‘ ‘ It was that actress who bought the piece of furniture with the 
new feet.” 

“ Great good may it do her!” 

“She bought it with my money, and it cost me twenty-five louis.” 

“ So much the worse for you. But, my dear fellow, if it was to 
narrate your follies that you have detained me for half an hour, 1 
must say that 1 find the joke a little tedious.” 

“You don’t understand. I would have paid fifty louis rather 
than let Monsieur Corieon have the thing. ” 

“ Did he want it?” 

“ At any price. 1 obtained it only by accident, so to speak, be- 
cause the auctioneer knew me and knocked it down quickly with- 
out giving Corieon time to bid again.’' 

“ It is singular— Corieon trying to acquire a book-case which be- 
longed to the victim of his friend, Pontaumur. Well, you have it. 
What did you do with it?” 

“ 1 let my little friend have it, and i regret having done so.” 

“ What, my dear Coulanges, you regret having been generous to 
a woman? 1 do not recognize you.” 

“ And 1, my dear Courtenay, am astonished that you have so lit- 
tle perspicacity. Hasn't the idea come to you of connecting this 
story of the Hotel Drouot with an event which preoccupies you, 
whatever you may say?” 

“ No, indeed. You completely upset my ideas, by jumping so 
suddenly from my notary’s office to the auction-room,” 

“ The connection is not difficult to see, however.” 

“ Possibly, but 1 don’t see it yet. Enlighten, O Coulanges! my 
feeble intelligence!” 

“ Let us see. You told me that Maurice had left in his pocket- 
book a note which told you nothing, as the bullet had carried away 
a fragment of the paper, and — ” 

“Ah! 1 see now!” cried George. “Maurice had deposited his 
will in this queer book-case of his. 1 don’t know why 1 did not 
think of it at once, for he spoke very often of that ridiculous piece 
of furniture. Mademoiselle Mezenc had made the feet. That was 
enough for him to be inspired ^ith a sort of veneration for it. 1 
don’t see why 1 did not look into it.” 

“Others than you have done so,” said the doctor. “But no 
harm is done, since the will is in the hands of the notary.” 


“ others, yes; but who? The furoiture was entirely at the dis- 
posal of the heirs, immediately after the seals were removed, they 
took possession of the apartment, and they did not leave it again, so 
to speak. They took turns in mounting guard.” 

” They must have rummaged everywhere. How dia it happen 
that the will escaped their search? Was it hidden in a drawer, 
which they neglected to open? The chiffonier book-case had sev- 
eral drawers.” 

” 1 would bet that they opened every on;e of them.” 

” Perhaps there was a secret drawer. At all events, it is certain 
that they found nothing; for, if they had discovered the paper 
which disinherited them, the notary would never have heard of it.” 

” Wait a minute!” said George, striking his forehead. ” Yes; I 
remember now, that in celebrating Mademoiselle Mezenc’s aitistic 
merits, Maurice, to give me a proof of her skill, told me that she 
had hollowed out the four feet of the table, and you had on'y to un- 
screw them to find a place veiy appropriate to hide a roll of papers 
in. There is no longer any doubt, Coulanges; the will was there, 
and the relations did not find it because they did not know of this 
peculiarity.” 

” Mademoiselle Mezenc knew about it, though, since she invented 
it; and, if we were sure that Saulieu told her where he had placed 
his will, the situation would be somewhat cleared up.” 

‘‘Not for me, for she could not have touched the book-case, 
which went straight from Maurice’s apartment to the auction-room. 
She did not know the heiis, and she did not buy the book-case.” 

“No; Idid.” 

“ For a young woman who is well disposed toward you, you told 
me.” 

“Yes; for Delphine du Kaincy, the hope of the Bouffes.” 

“ Good! and what did she do with her acquisition?” 

“ She took it away at once to her rooms in the Rue de Constanti- 
nople.” 

“ Well, perhaps your Delphine had the idea of taking apart her 
wonderful purchase.” 

“ I forbade her to touch it before seeing me; that does not prove 
anything, however, for curiosity is the least of her faults, and 
obedience is not one of her virtues. 1 should not be very much 
astonished, moreover, because she had an idea that it contained a 
hidden treasure. But, admitting that she did find the will, she 
would never have dreamed of sending it by post, especially as she 
did not know Saulieu, and still less his notary.” 


“ That is true. Tiien we are no further advanced in our conject- 
ures ” 

“ 1 am afraid of one thing. Delphine is not incorruptible, and, 
it she were offered a large sum, she is quite capable of having given 
up her bargain. She swore to me never to part with her famous 
chiffonier, the importance of which 1 suspected; but 1 do not place 
much reliance on the oaths of women. Now, one could only have 
purchased it to obtain Saulieu’s will, for it has no other value.*’ 

“ Who could have done so?” 

“ Some one who knew that the will was there.” 

” Add, and whose interest it was to produce it.*' 

“Assuredly.” 

“ But this some one can not be Monsieur Corleon. It matters, 
very little to him, 1 suppose, whether Mademoiselle Mezenc inherits 
or not. He has no connection with her.” 

“ True; and yet the obstinacy with which he bid for the chiffon- 
ier has bothered me a good deal. Kemember that he was willing to< 
pay a very big price for it, and he has a reputation for being stingy. 
Corleon evidently had some secret reason tor wanting it.” 

“ Then it would be necessary to suppose that he acted in conjunc- 
tion with {\iQ fiancee of Maurice Saulieu, whDin his friend Pontau- 
mur killed. If that were so, this Mademoiselle Marianne would be 
an abominable creature.” 

“ Thai is the reason that 1 can not believe in any understandings 
between them. But if it were proved to me that Corleon bought 
the piece of furniture from Delphine, the complicity would be al- 
most evident. Let me see. The sale took place the day before 
yesterday in the afternoon, and the noiary received the will 3 ^e 8 ter- 
day morning. The person who sent it by post must have procured 
it the day before yesterday in the evening.” 

“ By obtaining the book-case from the girl. Well, you must be 
ceriain of this point. You have been to see Delphine, 1 suppose?” 

“Unfortunately, no; 1 am not certain. When 1 left her at the 
door of the auction-rooms, 1 told her 1 should come to see her the 
next day, which was yesterday. Now, yesterday, we were invited 
to Madame Brehal’s. 1 had no time to go to ihe Rue de Constanti- 
nople before the afternoon.” 

“ 1 understand, but after you knew that the will had miraculous- 
ly turned up, that was the time or never to hasten to Delphine’s.” 

“ 1 did not fail to do so. But Delphine, who was to have waited 
for me, had gone out. 1 told her maid that 1 would return at din- 
ner-time, and 1 did so; but madame had come in during the interval 


iDetweeii my two calls, dressed and immediately gone out again. 
She had not left even a word of excuse tor me.” 

” That was unpardonable,” said George, laughing. ” She should 
not have acted in that way to a friend who makes her such pretty 
presents. ” 

‘‘ So 1 said to myself that (here must be something under all this ‘ 
lhat 1 did not know; especially as the girl has a very pronounced 
bump of gratitude. 1 was not mistaken. 1 went again this morn- 
ing to the Rue de Constantinople, and again Madame du Rainey was 
oui.” 

‘‘ This is becoming serious; and if you were jealous—” 

” Jealous of Delphine? Oh I dear me, no; but 1 could not under- 
stand, for other reasons, her prolonged absences. I talked with ihe 
maid, and she told nee that her mistress, the day before yesterday, 
had made a new acquaintance, a noble lord, as she called him, and 1 
found out that he had appeared for the first time at five o’clock, at 
the very moment when 1 Was walking with you in the riding-school, 
and just an hour after the sale of the chifitonier.” 

” And you concluded that it was liis design to appropriate that 
ugly piece of furniture. This is rather a far-fetched conjecture.” 

‘‘ 1 should not be surprised if it were a true one.” 

” At all events, this gentleman was not Monsieur Corleon, since 
Oorleon dined lhat evening at the club, at the same table with us.” 

“ Corleon has friends. One of them might have played the role 
of nabob with Delphine, and taken advantage of his intimacy to ex- 
amine the book-case.” 

” Did you ask the maid if the book-case was still there?” 

” Yes; but she did not seem to know what 1 meant. 1 had given 
her a louis for her information, nnd 1 did not get much for my 
money. But 1 do not consider myself beaten. I shall return to the 
chase; 1 know Delphine’s habits, and 1 am sure 1 shall find her.’' 

“By Jovel doctor, 1 admire your zeal, and 1 confess that it 
astonishes me. What good wmuld it do you if you should discover 
that there are mysteries in Mademoiselle Mezenc’s life? You do not 
think of marrying her?” 

” No, but — don’t you think, my dear George, that if this young 
girl is in connivance with Monsieur de Pontaumur’s acolyte, it 
would be well to let Madame Brehal know what sort of a protegee 
she has?” 

‘‘Bah! that protection will not last always. Our marriage will 
settle that.” 

‘‘ The fact is, that it seemed to me that 1 read in Mademoiselle 


Mezeoc’s face another sentiment than joy, when Madame Brehal 
announced to her that she was going to many you, and if 1 dared 
to tell you an idea that came to me — 

“You may do so, 1 think that 1 can guess your idea.” 

“ 1 wondered if you had not inspired a sentiment in her which she- 
keeps carefully hidden, but which her eyes sometimes betray. Yes- 
terday, in the salon of the kiosk, she gave a glance at you, and 
another at Madame Brehal, who, however, perceived nothing.” 

“ 1 have spoken to Madame Brehal, and 1 shall do so again this 
evening, when 1 see her at the opera.” 

“ \ou will not speak to her, 1 suppose, of our suppositions in re- 
gard to the young lady.” 

“ No, no. 1 shall wait until we are certain. And now, my dear 
Coulanges, you must allow me to leave you. 1 am no longer my 
own master, you know; 1 am going to buy my engagement present, 
and, unless you care to go with me to the jeweler's shop—” 

“ It would be amusing enough, but it is better for me to try and 
find Delphine. This is the time she returns from her rehearsal, and 
1 have some chance of finding her at home.” 

“ Good luck to you! Shall I see you to-morrow?” 

“ This evening, if you like, at the club, after the opera.” 

“Very well,” answered George, shaking the doctor’s hand, as^ 
the two friends separated. 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

Dr. Coulanges went away in a very refieclive mood after his 
talk with George Courtenay. His suspicions had taken a body, and 
were much more precise, since he knew that the notary had received 
the will. He had scarcely any doubt now that this will had been 
hidden in the ebony chifltonier, and, to be certain of this, he had de- 
cided to push the investigation as far as possible. He had taken 
some lime in starting out on his researches, but once started, he rec- 
ognized no obstacles. 

The twenty-five louis expended in the auction-room were noth- 
ing. He no longer regretted them, and he was ready to make any 
sacrifice to reach his end. But the problem was a complicated one- 
It was no longer simply a question of knowing wnat M. Corleon 
hoped to find in the chiftonier book-case; it was necessary, also, to 
find out why he was interested in Mile. Mezenc, who alone profited 
by the unexpected discovery of Maurice Saulieu’s last wishes. 


THE COis^SEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 




He had seen, for the first time, the day before yesterday, that pit- 
iful victim of the duel of Gennevilliers, that Marianne, whom M. 
de Pontaumiir’s bullet had touched in striking her and her 

beauty had bewildered him. The next day, at Mme. Biehal’s, her 
wit had charmed him. ?he inspired him with more than admira- 
tion; she inspired him with sympathy. And he did not often feel 
that sentiment for a woman, being naturally disposed to see the 
defects rather than the virtues of the weaker sex. He had even 
thought that he perceived at the end of the interview in the marble 
pavilion, that Mile. Mezenc was not very much rejoiced at George 
Courtenay’s marriage. He had also wondered if she w^ere not jeal- 
ous of the happiness of her benefactress, but it was a long w^ay from 
this to take this young girl for a 'protegee of M. Corleon; and ah 
though he had allowed himself to entertain for a moment the ideas 
of his friend Courtenay, he could not believe that she had been 
mixed up in any way with M. de Pontaumur and his companions. 
Mile. Mezenc declared that she would not accept . the legacy 
left her; this cut short all harsh suppositions, and in pursuing his 
work as a detective, Coulanges hoped that he would be able to dem- 
onstrate at one and the same time Corleon’s guilt, and Marianne’s 
innocence. He was inclined to think that this affair of the H6tel 
Drouot was attached by a mysterious bond to the criminal fraud 
which had cost ISauiieu his life, and in the heat of conversation he 
had almost told George the story of the false bullet, and the screw 
driven into the butt of one of the pistols, but he did not wish to 
trouble Courtenay’s happiness, and, besides, he judged it wiser to 
complete his investigations before exposing the facts to his friend. 

Meanw'hile, he could not better employ his time than by seeking 
for Helphine, and he walked toward the Rue de Constantinople 
which is not far from the Rue de Milan. He gained nothing for his 
pains. 

The porter told him that Mme. du Rainey had not returned, and 
Coulanges did not care to mount tour flights of steps to talk to a 
maid who gave him so little information with regard to his mis- 
tress. He feared that the maid would end by thinking him ridicu- 
lous, and he did not care to play at the house of a minor actress the 
role of a lover who comes three or four times a day to pull the bell 
of an apartment where he is not w^anted. Helphine, besides, would 
not pass the whole week in running about to restaurants, and by 
returning at the dinner-hoar the doctor would have some chance of 
at last finding her in. He also said to himself, that, aftei'the fash- 
ion of Amanda — the Amanda of the popular street-song— Helphine 


146 ' THR COis SEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

adored riding in a carriage, and that, by pushing on toward the 
Ohamps-Elysees, he might perhaps perceive her coming from the 
Bois de Boulogne, and stop her as she passed. 

It was just the time for the carriage to return, and it was superb 
weather, clear and not too warm, a spring day, such as is seldom 
seen in Paris. Coulanges was afflicted with a tendency to stoutness, 
and on hygienic principles he loved to walk, so he did nol neglect 
this occasion to do so, and he took the longest way by the Boule- 
vard and the Place de la Concorde. As he entered the right alley, 
which fashionable promenadeis prefer, the descent from the Bois 
commenced; it was a procession ot luxurious equipages and simple 
cabs. 

Upon the chairs lining the side of the avenue were seated hun- 
dreds of observers, who had come there to inspect the carriages, the 
horses, and the toilets, or "simply to warm themselves in the sun. 
Young dudes watched for a propitious moment to salute a fashion- 
iible woman; which is an excellent way of making the passers-by 
believe that one has fine acquaintances; little matters it to them, 
besides, whether the salute be returned or not. 

The doctor was not one of these. He did not give himself the 
^rouble to take off his hat to the great equipages, or the stylish little 
coupes, but he could have named almost all the women who occu- 
pied them, for he knew the Parisian world thoroughly. Moreover, 
after ten minutes' walk, he had only perceived celebrities who in- 
terested him very little; great ladies who were not his patients or 
the queens of the demi-monde; the old guard were all out, and he 
had too often passed them in review to take any pleasure in con- 
templating them. 

He was soon tired of elbowing and being elbowed by the crowd 
which filled the alley, and he decided to sit down at the foot of a 
great tree, about which were some vacant chairs. He thought with 
reason that it would be better to examine there the various vehicles 
which passed down the avenue. All kinds of carriages were repre- 
sented, from the superb landau with powdered footmen and coach- 
man, and crests upon the doors and harnesses, to the hired victoria 
driven by a coachman in white gloves like one of the Ambigu 
guests. 

Helphine would probably be in one of the latter, so Coulanges de- 
voted himself particularly to inspecting with a rapid glance the open 
or closed cabs which defiled before him. It was trouble lost, for 
he saw only unknown faces. 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


147 


The ungrateful occupation to which he had conscientiously given 
himself up ended by wearying him, and he thought of going away» 
when he noticed not very far from the place where he had taken up 
his position a little coupe stationed close to the stone coping which 
separates the sidewalk from the roadway. This coupe had a certain 
air of mystery about it. It was painted a dark green, without crest 
and even witnout initials, and drawn by a handsome sorrel horse, 
which a coachman in a coat with three capes had sufficient difficulty 
in keeping quiet. The window panes were replaced by wooden 
blinds, hermetically closed, but on the side toward the sidewalk, 
the blind was raised only two thirds, and on the top of this blind was 
resting a small hand in a black glove, the hand of a woman who 
was hidden in the interior of the carriage. This hand seemed to be 
a signal. The fingers were nervously beating a measure on the top 
of the blind. The lady was doubtless waiting for some one and was 
impatient at his non-arrival. It was certainly not Delphine’s hand. 
The careless person, whom Ooulanges had been seeking for twenty- 
four hours, would not have dreamed of hiding herself. She would, 
on the contrary, have been very proud to show herself in so fine a 
lurn-out. And then Delphine betrayed her breeding a little in her 
extremities, while the hand which he saw was small and ’well 
formed. 

There was here doubtless one of those Parisian adventures, which 
are met so often that they no longer excite the curiosity of the 
passers-by, and under any other circumstances the doctor would 
have taken no notice of it; but just now everything interested him. 
As he had exercised his mind so much in guessing enigmas, he saw 
enigmas in the most insignificant facts, so he did not lose sight of 
the carefully closed coupe, and he was preparing to approach it softly 
at the risk of missing while doing so the damsel he was watching 
for. Hut at the moment he was about to rise, he perceived about 
thirty feet from him and about twenty from the carriage M. de 
Pontaiimur, advancing with a cigar in his mouth. Instead uf be- 
ing upon the band of asphalt which marks the middle of the alley, 
M. de Pontaumur was walking betreen the first line of iron benches 
and the single chairs at the foot of the trees like that which the doc- 
tor occupied. He did not see Coulanges, but if Ooulanges had 
carried® out his first plan they would soon have been face to face. 

Ooulanges had the presence of mind to keep himself hidden, and 
Pontaumur, as he arrived opposite the coupe, stopped suddenly and 
commenced to study the horse. Immediately, the hand disappeared 
and the blind was drawn up. 


148 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


“ 1 have good eyes,” thought the doctor, “ and if the lady opens 
the door 1 shall see who she is.” 

But Pontaumur, after pausing a moment, turned back a little, 
left the side walk, passed behind the carriage and suddenly became 
invisible, Ten seconds after, the sound of a door quickly closed 
struck Coulanges’ ear, and the sorrel horse started off like a dash, 
dragging the coupe up the avenue. 

Coulanges had not understood very well this movement, and when 
the coupe rolled away he expected to see Pontaumur standing in the 
place where he had seen him disappear behind the carriage. But 
the place was empty. The carriage bore away Pontaumur to un- 
known regions with a woman no less unknown. The operation had 
been so deftly performed that it must have been arranged before- 
hand between the two. It was an abduction, but instead of the 
man abducting the woman, as is usually the case, it was the woman 
who abducted the man, and the place had been singularly chosen by 
this more or less well assorted couple. In general, lovers who have 
anything to hide do not make appointments in the middle of the 
Champs-Elysees, at tlie time when the carriages are returning from 
the Bois. However, the agreement was evident. The coupe with 
wooden blinds had come from the Place de la Concorde, and it 
stopped exactly opposite the grand entrance of the Palais de I’ln- 
duslrie. Pontaumur had come in an opposite direction, and he knew 
that he was going to meet the dark-green coupe, for he had w'alked 
as near as possible to the road, and had given a glance at each pass- 
ing or stationary carriage. No one, to tell the truth, had taken 
any notice of his maneuvers, no one excepting Coulanges. The 
chairs, which were in the neighborhood of the meeting, were occu- 
pied by a bourgeois family; these good people were admiring the 
scene, and if they had noticed a gentleman walk behind an hermetic- 
ally closed carriage, they surely would have suspected no mischief. 

” Did Pontaumur perceive me?” wondered the doctor. And he 
answered himself: “No, it is not probable. If he had known that 
1 were here, he would have passed on his way, making a sign to the 
lady to go and wait for him further on. He did not suspect that 
1 was watching him unless—” 

The doctor stopped short in his reasoning. The situation sud- 
denly appeared to him in a new light. 

” Unless the fellow did it on purpose,” bethought, continuing his 
monologue. ‘‘Is it perhaps the continuation of his expeditions to 
the Boulevard Berthier? Who knows, it this time, also, he was 
not seeking to attract the attention of people who know him? He 


THE CONSEQUEN-CES OF A DUEL. 


149 


hoped perhaps that 1 would tell this story at the club, and that cer- 
tain people would believe it was Madame Brehal. It was not she 
certainly who was in the mysterious coupe, but nolhinj> wouia pre- 
vent me saying it if 1 cared to do mischief, nor even from thinking 
it, for after all 1 saw nothing but a hand, in a black glove.” 

Upon further reflection, Coulanges concluded that this imaginary 
supposition would, after all, have no serious basis; Pontaumur 
might very easily meet a lady in the Champs-Elysees, without Mme. 
Brehal counting for anything in the adventure. And he again re- 
turned to his occupation of observing the carriages, for he had not 
yet lost all hope of seeing Delphine pass. The idea then came to 
him that he would not be much further advanced if she should pass 
without seeing him. The carriages which descend from tte Arc de 
Triomphe take the south side of the avenue, and Coulanges seated 
on the north side could scarcely call across the street to the person 
he was seeking. And in order to be ready for any event, the worthy 
doctor hailed a passing cab and engaged it by the hour, so as to have 
it close at hand in case he should be obliged to follow Delphine. He 
no longer counted very much on her appearance, for it was getting- 
late, but he could still use the cab, as he did not intend to go on 
foot to the Rue de Constantinople. Kot five minutes after he had 
engaged the cab, an elegant blue coupe attracted his attention. This 
one was not hermetically sealed like the other; the lowered win- 
dows permitted him to see the woman who occupied it, and as the 
horse was not going very fast, the doctor had plenty of time to 
recognize Mme. Brehal. 

“Ah!” he murmured. “ 1 knew very well it was not she who 
departed with Pontaumur.” 

Of course he bowed, and Mme. Brehal not only returned his bow, 
but stopped her carriage. 

Coulanges, flattered by this attention, hastened to the door and 
was received as graciously as possible. 

“lam delighted to see you,” said the lady, “ and 1 have a great 
mind to take you away with me. We will go as far as the lake and 
1 will set you down wherever you like.” 

This amiable proposition did not suit the doctor’s business at 
all, and he excused himself as well as he was able. He pretended 
that he was expected at five o’clock for a consultation. 

“ You have patients then?” asked Mme. Brehal, laughing. “ 1 
would not have believed it. But 1 do not wish to incommode you, 
and 1 give you your liberty on condition that you will come and see 


me as soon as possible. “You are George’s best friend, and George’s 
friends are mine. na*ve you seen him to-day?” 

” 1 have just left his house.” answered Coulanges. 

‘‘He will be at the opera this evening in my box and there will 
be a place for you, if you caie to come. We will speak of deal 
Marianne. 1 fear that she is ill, for she did not come this morn- 
ing as usual, and on my w^ay home 1 shall stop in the Hue Blanche 
to inquire for her. Au rewir, my dear doctor,” concluded Mme. 
Brehal, making a sign to her coachman to drive on. 

” 1 would have made a bet that dear Marianne would be ill to- 
da 3 %” thought the doctor, going back to his place, ” and my pre- 
scriptions would not cure her. It is Courtenay’s marriage which 
has given her a heart-ache. She suffers much more from it, I fear, 
than she suffered from poor Saulieu’s death. What a singular girl 
she is! She does not regret her fianc^, and she will not have the 
fortune he left her. She only wants what she can’t have. 1 pity 
her, but what can 1 do? 1 should not succeed in consoling her, 
and 1 do not care to try, and yet 1 acknowledge she is charming. 
What a pity she is not destined tor the theater like Delphine!” 

This monologue came to an end as Coulanges reached his chair, 
and, at the same instant, an unexpected spectacle attracted his at- 
tention. 

A victoria came dashing down the avenue, driven by a woman. 
A groom seated beside her showed unequivocal signs of fear, and 
the coachmen, driving in an opposite direction, took good care to 
keep well out of the way, to avoid a collision. This badly dressed 
domestic who was not in his proper place, this horse which had 
once been a good animal, but was now used up, the lady’s manner 
of driving, were all the the height of bad form, and the people 
who lined the avenue, smiled at the grotesque riquipage. 

The doctor laughed, like everybody else, and even more w^hen he 
recognized the damsel. 

” It is Delphine,” he murmured in amazement. 

And it was she. The foolish creature bothered herself very little 
with turning aside for other carriages and seemed to think nothing 
of the dangers of collision. Leaning forward, with both hands 
clasped tight about the reins, she took the attitude of a driver in 
a hippodrome, conducting a four-hurse chariot about the course, 
and her smiles seemed to say to the astonished promenaders who 
watched her pass: Admire me: admire my carriage, my gioom, my 
horse and my chic! 

‘‘If she continues in that way,” thought Coulanges, ‘‘she will 


break her neck, there’s no doubt of that, and I shall never know it 
the will was in the chiffonier. 1 will try to overtake her, if it is 
only to pick her up w'hen she goes head over heels into the gutter.” 

His cab was standing close by, and the driver held himself in 
readiness. 

“ Follow it,” said the doctor, pointing to the victoria. “ At the 
pace she is going, you won’t be able to catch her, but you shall 
have ten francs, pourboire, if you don’t lo^^^e sight of her.” 

” It will be all right,” said the coachman, that beast is played 
out and my mare is a good one.” 

And upon this assurance, the pursuit commenced. 

Delphine was already at the Place de la Concorde, but she was 
going much slower; the horse was winded. 

“Is she going to turn and go up the avenue again?” thought 
Coulanges. ” She is quite capable of it. She imagines that all the 
millionaires of Paris are contemplating her. No! fortunately, she is 
going home. At last we shall have an explanation.” 

The victoria, instead of taking the Rue Royale, to the great as- 
tonishment of the doctor, turned into the Rue de Rivoli, which is 
not the way to reach the Quartier de I’Europe. 

Where the devil is she going?” murmured Coulanges, satisfied 
to see that if his cab was not gaining any ground, it was at all 
events not Ipsing anj^ ‘‘Probably to see the rich lord who has 
paid for that frightful turn-out. So much the better! 1 shall know 
who he is.” 

The victoria turned into the Rue Castiglione, crossed the Place 
Vendome, and, entering the Rue de la Paix, turned up the Rue 
Neuve-de-Petits-Champs. 

Coulanges did not understand this at all, but he encouraged his 
driver to keep on, and the driver plied his whip with ardor. All 
vrent well to the corner of the Rue Vivienne. There, an omnibus 
barred the passage of the cab, while the victoria, which had still a 
good start, continued to keep on. The doctor, excited by the ardor 
of the pursuit, swore at his coachman, who could, however, do 
nothing. It was impossible to advance. The omnibus had become 
locked with a wagon and its enormous bulk encumbered tne road. 
It even intercepted the view, and although Coulanges rose to his 
feet, he could not perceive the victoria. The coachman turned 
round to say to him: 

” Have no fear, she is not lost. She has taken the Rue des Petits- 
T^res.” 

This information did not, at all, reassure the doctor. The street 


152 


THE CONSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


in question is not long, but it is crossed by three or lour olhei 
stieets which extend in different directions. 

How was it possible to guess it the capricious Delphine had taker 
the one which leads toward the Bourse, or if she had continuec 
straight on toward the Quartier Bonne-JXourelle? Coulanges hac 
become enamored of the chase, and he would have run all ovei 
Paris to have captured his prey. 

Finally, after three or four minutes, which appeared very long tc 
the hunter, the omnibus became disengaged and rolled on, leaving 
the passage free to the carriages accumulated in a line. The drivei 
meant to pourboirey and he managed so well, that he im- 

mediately took the lead, and the horse, vigorously whipped, dashed 
into the Rue des Petits-P5res, which comes out upon the place ol 
the same name. 

As the cab entered this place, the doctor had the unexpected joy 
of perceiving the victoria standing before the church of Notre-Dame- 
des-Yictoires, but Delphine was not there. 

Her groom, who had alighted, was examining the knees of the 
panting horse, and he did not appear very happy. He seemed to 
be asking himself if the poor animal would last until it reached the 
stable. 

The intelligent coachman, who had driven Coulanges, drew up 
his cab against the sidewalk at the corner ot the little frequented 
passage, which communicates with the Rue de la Banque, and 
Coulanges lost no time in alighting. 

Well! you didn’t expect that, nor 1 either,” said the coach- 
man, pointing with the end of his whip to the victoria and the por- 
tal of Notre-Dame-des-Yictoires. knew 1 should catch her at 
last, though, but the stable-keeper won’t be very well pleased; his 
horse is foundered.” 

“Wait tor me there,” interrupted the doctor, who did not wish 
to be left in the lurch, if, by chance, the chase should recommence; 
and he walked quickly toward the church. He decided not to 
enter, for fear he should miss her, and took up his station beforo 
the door. 

He had not long to wait. Delphine appeared, and uttered a little 
cry of surprise on seeing him; but she did not attempt to avoid 
him; on the contrary, she came toward him with her hand held out 
and a smile upon her face. 

” Whatl is it you?” she cried. ” Ah, 1 didn’t expect to meet you 
here. All the same, 1 am very glad to see you, my dear doctor. ” 


TJiJi UU-INttJimU JjiJNUilitt A UUliiLi. 


J.UO 


“So am 1 glad to see you,” growled Couianges. “ 1 have been 
Tunning after you for two days.” 

“ l^es, I know; my maid told me that you had come, and 1 was 
very sorry not to have been at home, but it wasn’t my fault.” 

“Humph! you have made the conquest of a Russian prince, 
Justine told me that; but that is no reason for treating me as you 
have done. You might have left some message for me. If 1 hadn’t 
seen you pass in the Champs-Elysees, 1 should still be wondering 
what had become of you.” 

“Ah! did you see me? In my victoria? How do you like my 
victoria?” 

“It is beastly, my dear! The horse is twenty, if he is a day; 
and your groom looks as if he came out of a Jew pawnbroker’s 
shop. If your boyard gave yuu that present 

“ Oh, no! I hired that for the day. I am going to have another 
one— one of my own, and which will have real pschutt. But 1 was 
in a hurry to cut a dash, and—” 

“And you did cut a dash, indeed. Everybody was looking at 
you— and laughing at you.” 

“ Because 1 drove myself? Why so? 1 didn’t manage so badly, 
for a woman who has never learned.” 

“ It was a miracle that you did not knock down somebody, 
especially in the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, which isn’t very 
broad.” 

“ So you have been following me, then?” 

“ Virtually, since 1 am heie. 1 followed you in a cab; I lost you 
ten limes on the way, and 1 did not expect to find your rattletrap 
before a church.” 

“ 1 went in to burn a candle to Noire Dame des Victoires.” 

“ And what have you asked of Notre Dame des Victoires?” 

“ Well, 1 can tell you, 1 wanted my monsieur to return.” 

“ Return? He is gone away already, then?” 

“ No— that is to say- well — we were to dine last night together 
at the Pavilion d’Armenonville. He told me that he would send 
his carriage at seven o’clock, but as it didn’t come, 1 hired one and 
went there, but 1 didn’t find him.” 

“ The (fevil! That’s a bad sign. And to-day—” 

“ To-day I went to the Grand Hotftl, where he lodges. He had 
gone out. Then I hired a victoria by the day. I hoped to meet 
him in the Bois, and I made the tour of the lake fifteen times, but 
he was not there.” 

“ He has been making fun of you.” 






“ It looks like it; and yet 1 can not believe it. He is so gentli 
manly, and then h happened so queerly.’’ 

“ Tell me about it, and perhaps 1 will be able to give you gon 
advice.” 

“ 1 ask nothing better, lor 1 don’t know what o do. But we can 
talk here.” 

” Well, lei us go to your house.” 

“ To my house! And if he comes?’' 

” If he comes, 1 will go away; but he will not come. You ha^ 
fallen upon a bird-of-passage, my poor Fifine, and this is no tin 
to quarrel with an old friend.” 

” Quarrel with you? Kever! In the first place, you brought n 
luck.” 

“Bah! How?” 

” You took me to the Hotel Drouot, and it was there that he nc 
ticed me.” 

‘‘At the H6tel Drouot?” cried the doctor, who thought at one 
of Corleon. 

“Yes, monsieur,” said Delphine, “at the Hotel* Drouot; but 
didn’t see him.” 

“ It is very curious,” interrupted the doctor; “ and you must te’ 
me all about it. Send away your turn-out. 1 have a coupe whid 
will take us to your house, and we can talk on the way. Is you 
victoria paid for?” 

“ ISo; 1 owe thirty francs, without counting the pourboi7^e for th 
groom. ' 

Coulanges would* have given much more not to lose the rest o 
the information, which promised so well. He hastened to put tw< 
louis into the hand of the groom, who was longing to talte his un 
fortunate horse back to the stable. 

Delphine, always appreciative of kind acts, entered the cab. Thi 
doctor gave the address to the driver, and they rolled off at a mod 
erale gait toward the Rue de Constantinople. 

“ It seems, then,” began the doctor, “ that your Russian prince — ’ 

“ in the first place,” cried Delphine, “ he is not a Russian at all 
he is a Spaniard, and his name is Fernando.” * 

“ What else? The Castilian must have a dozen names.” 

“ Probably. But he did not think it best to tell them to me. ” 

“You should have asked him.” 

“ 1 didn’t think of it, and then I expected that he would return. 
He told me that he lived at the Grand Hotel, and 1 imagined that 
he was very well known.” 


“ And when you asked for Monsieur Fernando, they laughed in 
your face? Confess that you have been something of a goose/’ 

“ My dear friend, anybody would have been taken in. A gentle- 
man who takes to dine at Bignon’s, and slips twenty-five louis 
under my plate— of course 1 had confidence in him. Well, to pro- 
ceed: After dinner we returned to my house to take tea. He asked 
me to sing something. He is very fond of music, and as 1 am as 
yet only so-so in musical ability, 1 proposed to go for Angele, one 
of my friends of the Bouffes, who plays the piano like an angel. 
He jumped at this proposition, sc 1 went for Angele— she lives in 
the same street 1 do— and she executed for us all of Offenbach's 
operas; and, at midnight, Fernando took his leave.” 

“ When did you first see him?” 

” Fernando came to my house the day before yesterday.” 

“ At what time?*' 

” As 1 was dressing to go to the theater, about two hours after 1 
left the Hotel Drouot; and 1 had installed my ebony chiffonier in 
the salon; it looks very pretty there.” 

” Is it still there?” asked the doctor, quickly. 

" Why, do you imagine that I have sold it? No danger, my dear 
doctor, that I should part; with an object given me by you. And 
the proof of that is, that 1, could have got a bigger price than was 
paid for it, before leaving the auction- room. The old Jew offered 
me fifty francs more if 1 would let him have it.” 

‘‘Yes, 1 know; but didn’t you tell me that a gentleman who 
stood near the auctioneer complimented you?” 

‘‘A little thin fellow, dark as a mulatto; but 1 did not answer 
him. 1 was too much occupied in giving my address to the clerk 
who had received my money.” 

“ !t'ou had no need to give it, since you took the chiffonier away 
with you. Then this thin, dark gentleman knew your address?” 

Mme. du Haincy, in few words, had perfectly described Corleon, 
and the doctor was wondering if it were he who had taken the name 
of an hidalgo. 

“ 1 don’t know whether he heard it or not,” replied Delphine; 
‘‘ but 1 know that 1 never saw him again. 1 saw only my Span- 
iard, who does not resemble him at all.” 

‘ But who was also in the room, and who must have asked your 
address at the desk. How else could he have found it out?” 

” That is true. I hadn’t thought of that. Well, whether he did 
or not, he came to see me two hours after the sale.” 


xou amea witn inm; you naa music m me evening, ena ne 
bade you good night. Well, what else?” 

“ That is about all. Fernando has not appearea again, though he 
promised to come the next day.” 

“ Let me see. When you went tor Angele, did he remain alone 
in your apartment?” 

“ Certainly; 1 didn't tear that he would steal anything. He was 
a gentleman; 1 told you that. But the next day 1 waited for him 
all day, without his turning up; still, lam sure he will come again.' 

“Pooh! You already know that he does not live at the Grand 
Hotel, as he pretended. 1 would bet that he is no Spaniard, either.” 

“ He doe;s speak Franch perfectly, that’s a fact.” 

“ He is probably some practical joker.” 

“ Excuse me,” exclaimed Helphine, vexed; “ you forget that he 
made me a present of twenty-five louis. The joke would be a trifle 
expensive, and 1 can’t see any reason for it.” 

“ 1 am afraid 1 do,” muttered the doctor. “ But tell me, how 
old is your Fernando, and what does he iooii like?” 

“ He looks to be about forty. He is very tall, and with immense- 
ly broad shoulders; he has a singular face, deeply bronzed; he 
wears a full black beard, and his hair is a little gray on the temples. 
Oh I he is enormously 'pschuti—dM the women would run after him, 
simply for his looks.” 

“ Did he wear a dark-green frock-coat?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ And a diamond in his scarf.” 

“ A big diamond. Ah! you know him, then!” 

“Perhaps,’' said Coulanges. “But here w^e are at your door. 
Will you permit me to come in? 1 want to see the chiffonier again.” 

“ What a queer idea! But, if it amuses you, come on.” 

The doctor, preceded by Delphine, ascended the stairs, and they 
had scarcely entered the apartment, when he ran to the salon, where 
he had the satisfaction of perceiving the famous piece of furniture. 

To take off the top piece, turn over the table with its four feet in 
the air, and kneel down to complete the operation w’as the work of a 
minute. 

“ Are you crazy?” asked Delphine in amazement. 

Coulanges, instead of replying, unscrewed the four feet one after 
the other, without any difficulty, and saw that Courtenay’s infor- 
mation was correct. They were hollow and — they were empty. He 
shook them and there fell out of one of the cavities a pink string 
which might have been used to tie up a roll of papers. 


“Idiot that 1 was!” screamed Delphine. “The feet of the 
chiffonier were full of bank-notes, and 1 never suspected it!” 

“ Bank-notes? No, 1 think not,” said Coulanges. “ But, all 
the same, you were very wrong to leave Fernando alone with your 
chiffonier.” 

“ Ah! the thief! It \^as to rob me that he sent me to Angele’st 
And 1 believed in his love of music! . Heavens and earth! If 1 ever 
get him in my clutches, he ill pass a bad quarter of an hour!” 

“If you see him again, 1 advise you to say nothing to him, to 
follow him at a distance, until he enters somewhere, and then send 
for me by a messenger. In that way you will lose no time.” 

“ And notv, you are going?” 

“Yes. 1 have some business to attend to, but come and see me 
to-morrow. You have rendered me a real service by lelaling the 
story of Fernando, and you deserve a reward.” 

The doctor took leave of Delphine, and ran down the four flights 
of stairs. 

“Now,” he thought, “I see what has happened; I see it as 
clearly as if 1 had been there; Corleon failed to obtain the chiffonier, 
but he had Delphine's address. He did not dare to operate himself, 
as he feared 1 had warned the girl against him; but he went and 
joined a friend who was waiting for him to learn the result of the. 
sale, and this friend undertook to play the part of the Spanish don. 
The friend was Pontaumur, and he was going to the rendezvous 
when Courtenay met him leaving the riding-school. She described 
him so exactly that it is impossible to be mistaken. All is clear now, 
all, except one thing— one thing alone. Why is^Pontaumur inter- 
ested in Mademoiselle Mezenc?” 

And as Coulanges entered his cab, he muttered between his teeth. 

“ That I will find out, if, to do so, 1 have to spy on them both!” 


CHAPl’ER IX. 

That evening, George, in full-dress and with a flower in his but- 
ton-hole, entered the opera house at an hour when the fashionable 
world is still at dinner. The doctor, who was dining at the Cafe 
Anglais, was only at the salad, and yet he intended also to show 
himself in Mme. Brehal’s box, in response to her gracious invitation; 
but the agreeable prospect of passing an hour or two there did not 
prevent him from doing full justice to his dinner and enjoying the 
heavy wines he delighted in. This was his way of refreshing hiia- 
self after the fatigues and emotions of an eventful day. 


ijreor^e, wno naa no neeu oi sumuianis, naa amea at aome, in- 
toxicating himself with his happiness, and arrived at the theater be- 
fore the curtain was up, although he knew very well that he would 
not find Mme, Brehal there. A lover’s watch is always fast, and 
George was madly, wildly in love. His case did not belong to either 
of the two best known categories of that affection of the heart, w^hich 
those, who have never been attacked by it, would treat as a mental 
disease: it was not love at first sight, for he had known Mme, 
Brehal for years; nor w^as it that phenomenon which Stendahl calls 
crystallization, for he had not taken time to reflect. It was the burst- 
ing forth of a hidden fire wdiich a word, a look from Gabrielle had 
caused to blaze up, as the sudden opening of a window fans a flame. 

He now would have wished this marriage, which he had not 
thought of three days ago, to take place the next day. He even 
intended without delay to propose to Mme. Brehal lo fix a very early 
date, and he hoped that she would join in with his ideas, for she 
haJ let him perceive that she was as impatient as he to have done 
with the wearisome preliminaries of their happiness. 

On this particular evening “Don Juan” was to be given, and 
Gabrielle adored Mozart’s music, which is the most agreeable of 
any to lovers’ ears. It was the best accompaniment that George 
could desire to a low-voiced conversation between two lovers, isolated 
in the midst of the crowd. The tinkling airs of a ballet would have 
disturbed them; the trumpets of “Aida” would have deafened 
them. 

George arrived as they were finishing the overture, and entered 
the box, which was on the first tier. It held five, but there were to 
be but three, and lie could dispose of the chairs as he pleased. It 
was quite a work of art to diminish the distance between them, 
without preventing freedom of movement. 

He listened with some pleasure lo the beautiful trio of the death 
of the commander, and during the less important morceaux which 
followed he gazed through his opera glasses at the house, which was 
filling more rapidly than usual. “ Don Juan ” is a treat, and the 
most blase r>t subscribers do not wish lo lose anything of it. There 
were many strange faces, for provincials and foreigners are invad- 
ing more and more the opera house, and if this invasion continues, 
soon not a Parisian will be seen there. But he perceived some peo 
pie that he knew, and as he exchanged bows, he thought to himself 
that his presence in Mme. Brehal’s box was almost equivalent to a 
public declaration of their intended marriage, and he rejoiced at the 
thought. 


The charming woman to whom the box belonged, entered during 
Zerlina’s aria. George felt that it would be bad taste to speak at 
such a moment, so he contented hinfselt with an eloquent pressure 
of the hand, and aided her to install herself in a corner of the box, 
receiving as his reward a smile more expressive than all the words 
in the world. 

The chatelaine ot the Avenue de Villiers was en grande toilette, as 
was befitting a solemn occasion. She had selected a gown of tur- 
quois velvet, embroidered with pearls and adorned with old Vene 
tian point. Her beautiful neck and arms were bare, and on her 
right shoulder was a bunch of ostrich feathers clasped by a large 
sapphire. She carried a bouquet ot gardenias, an exquisite fan, and 
an enameled opera-glass emblazoned with her monogram in dia- 
monds. On her arm was the bracelet which George had sent her 
during the day, a marvelous work of art, without counting the value 
of the stones. 

She gave little nods to certain of her friends', who whispered sig- 
nificantly as they scrutinized her. The particular attention accorded 
to her did not seem to embarrass her at all, and George had, the pleas- 
ure of seeing that she was happy and pioud to show herself in pub- 
lic with him. She then abandoned herself to the pleasure of listening 
to the melodies with which Mozart has embroidered his masterpiece, 
and he made no attempt to disturb her pleasure. But when it came 
to the '‘Maskers’ I’rio,’' he gently drew close to her, and they 
listened together in silence to the delicious music. 

“ Howbeautiiul it is!” murmured George, wdien the last note had 
died away. “ 1 never appreciated this lovely music before this 
evening. It was written for lovers, and they alone can understand 
its meaning.” 

” True, and I assure you that 1 understand it,” bieathed Gabrielle. 

Their hands met and their eyes exchanged a vow. They were 
still dreaming when the curtain fell. 

The intermission always brings about a change in attitudes as 
well as in sensations, and they recovered their former positions. 

” Do you know what 1 am thinking of?” asked Gabrielle, laugh- 
ing. 

‘‘lam thinking of you,” replied George. 

” 1 was thinking of those big boxes at the Opera-Comique, where 
■young girls are brought to be presented to a young man who arrives 
as if by accident. We have no need to play that farce, but this is 
indeed our betrothal evening. 1 read in the faces about me that to 


160 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

morrow all Paris will know the news, and lam glad to have them 
know it.” 

*' Then, you will not be angry if 1 implore you to abridge the 
delays which separate us from the happy day.” 

' Are you afraid that you will change your mind if you have to 
, wait?” 

“You are laughing at me, and 1 will not permit myself to ask 
• you the same question. But, seriously, don’t you think that there 
; is no more foolish position than that of two people between their 
■ engagement and their marriage?” 

“It is foolish and dangerous both. Poor Marianne has had a 
cruel experience of that. Fix any day you like, as soon as the law 
allows.” 

“In a month, if you are willing.” 

“ I am not only willing, but 1 desire it. It is said, there is many 
a slip betwdxt the cup and the lip; let us drink the cup before the 
accident happens. But, speaking of Mademoiselle Mezenc, do you 
know 1 haven’t seen her to-day? She did not come to the pavilion 
this morning, and, as 1 was returning from the Bois this afternoon, 

1 went to her house and they told me that she was ill. 1 asked to 
see her and «ent in my name, but the answer came back that she 
would receive no one. Her refusal hurt me, and 1 wonder if 1 have 
offended her, without meaning to. Perhaps 1 should have insisted 
upon her breakfasting with us yesterday.” 

“ Do you want my very sincere opinion?” interrupted George. 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, 1 think that you occupy yourself altogether too much 
with Mademoiselle Mezenc.” 

“You have already told me so, but—” 

“ Let her sulk if she likes. The decoration of your summer 
salon will pain by it, and you will lose nothing. Y'our protegee is 
not to be pitied, since it only depends upon herself to inherit 
Saulieu’s fortune. She pretends that she does not wish it, but 1 am 
sure that she will accept. Perhaps she has already done so.” 

“ George, you are unjust to that young girl.” 

“ When you see the doctor, ask him what he thinks.” 

“ The doctor I We are going to see him here, I hope. 1 met him 
this afternoon in the Champs-Elysees and 1 invited him to join us 
u,t the opera.” 

“ Ah!” muttered Courtenay, with a slight frown. 

“ Do you disapprove? Y'ou are wrong,” said Mme. Brehal, 
smiling. “ The presence of your friend in my box will be more 


THE COITSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


161 


remarked than your own. 1 am burning my ships this evening, 
and here 1 am definitely compromised. It you should change your 
opinion, 1 should never find any one else to marry rce.” 

“ Pardon me, Gahrielle. 1 love you so much that i am jealous of 
every Dody. It is a villainous fault and 1 will try to correct it.” 

“1 do not wish you to correct it. It is to your jealousy that we 
owe our happiness. If you had not imagined that Monsieur de 
Pontaumur — ” 

” Kever speak of that man, 1 implore you. Every time 1 hear his 
name pronounced it enrages me. And when 1 see him, it is much 
worse, tor he bows to me and 1 am obliged to return his salute, in- 
stead of striking him, as i would like to do.” 

Mme. Brehal was about to preach moderation, when Coulanges 
appeared, armed with a box ot bon-bons, which he offered with 
rather a pretty compliment. This rather old-tashioned gallantry 
drew a jesting speech from George. “ While you were about it; 
iny dear felloe, why didn’t you bring some oranges, loo?” 

Coulanges defended himself, and Mme. Brehal took his part, 
averring that the bon-bons were delicious. , 

‘‘ 1 do not reproach you for coming late,” she said tp bim with a 
smile, ” but you have sacrificed Mozart’s music to ihe cuisine of 
the Cafe Anglais; confess it.” 

‘‘ Oh!” said the doctor, ” 1 shall not deny that 1 only appreciate 
Mozart after a good dinner. But this evening 1 should have been 
here twenty minutes ago, it 1 had not been stopped at the door by 
— by a gentleman ot our club, a gentleman whose conversation does 
not amuse me at all, and whom 1 had much difficulty in getting rid 
ot.” 

” Who was it?” asked Courtenay. 

” The one you see below there in the orchestra,” responded Cou- 
langes, who already regretted having said so much, and who wished 
to avoid pronouncing the name of Pontaumur. Mme. Brehal and 
George both looked in the direction he indicated and immediately 
recognized the man they detested, 

M. de Pontaumur had taken possession of a chair on the left side 
of the orchestra, that is to say, opposite Mme. BrehaVs box, and at 
this very moment he was regarding her with much attention. He 
had, however, the tact not to bow, and he changed his attitude the 
moment he perceived that he had been seen. 

‘‘One would really say that he was pursuing me,” muttered 
George. 


6 


162 


THE COKSEQUEE^CES OF A DUEL. 

“ He is a subscriber,” observed Mme. Brehal. ‘‘It is natural 
enough to meet him at the opera.” 

” True,” answered Coulanges, but 1 also meet him everywhere, 
1 saw him this atternoon in the Champs-Elysees and 1 find him here 
again this evening. It is too much.” 

*‘ And he accosted you. 1 should' like to know what lie said.” 

” Polite trivialilieSo He feels that 1 bear him no good will since 
the duel, and he seeks to rene w relations which were never intimate. 
1 could not in decency turn my back upon him, but 1 was \eYy 
cold, you may believe.” 

Let us think no more of him,” said Mme. Brehal. 

” It will be all the easier to forget him, as he is going,” responded, 
the doctor. 

'* Yes,” said Ueorge, ‘‘he is moving toward the door. He 
scarcely sat down.” 

‘‘ it is singular that he should leave just as the intermission is 
nearly over. It looks as though he entered the theater only to look. 
at us three. But that man does nothing like any one else.” 

And as Mme. Brehal made a slight movement of impatience, Ooii- 
langes continued to explain wdiat he had thoughtlessly said: 

Would you believe, madame, that, an instant before meeting 
you in Ihe Champs-Elysees, 1 saw him glide mysteriously into a 
cab where an invisible woman was waiting for him? And the coupe 
bore them away toward the Arc de Trioraphe. Was it not singular 
to choose the place where all Paris promenades?” 

” His system is always the same,” growled George. ‘‘ He adver- 
tises himself by feigning to hide.” 

” This time, at least,” said Mme. Brehal, laughing, ‘‘ 1 shall not 
be compromised in Monsieur Coulanges’ eyes, since he spoke to me 
in my carriage while an unknown was bearing away in hers this 
great conqueror But let ua change the subject. What do you 
think of this marvelous opera, doctor, which I never hear without 
being transported, and w^hich causes me every time new sensa- 
tions?” 

‘‘Good gracious! Madame,” responded the doctor, only too 
delighted to change the conversation, ‘‘ you embarrass me terribl}^ 

I have stored away in my memory a fine assortment of ready-made 
phrases which 1 might use; nothing even would prevent me from 
enlarging upon the merits of artists w^ho formerly sung ‘ Don Juan ^ 
and w^ho have never been replaced ; but 1- prefer to tell you quite 
simply that ] am not competent to judge Mozart.” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


163 


“ You are not fond of music, and 1 pity you for not being so; but 
you have, at least, the courage of your opinion.” 

” But 1 adore music — as an aid to digestion. And to be entirely 
Irank, 1 am going to say something which will sound dreadful in 
your ears. When 1 have had champagne with my dinner, I feel the 
need of hearing Oftenbach. The fine brands of Burgundy prepare 
me admirably to enjoy the masterly works of Meyerbeer. To ap- 
preciate Mozart, I must taste beforehand the delicate bouquet of 
Chateau-Margaiix. And this evening 1 offered myself two bottles 
of that king of Bordeaux wines which refreshed the old age of 
Cardinal Richelieu. ” 

” Then you will be able to submit patiently to the four remaining 
acts. The one which is about to begin is the ballet act, which de- 
serves to be listened to, but 1 permit you to talk.” 

The curtain rose, and the chair abandoned by M. de Prmtaumur 
remained empty. 

‘‘ Where can he have gone?” wondered Coulanges, ryhom this 
abrupt departure puzzled considerably, although he tried to appear 
not to attach any importance to it. 

bince he had known the secret of the reappearance of the will the 
doctor had been rendered very uneasy by the acts of the person who 
had killed Maurice Saulieu, and who was evidently con«piiing 
against the repose of Mme. Brehal. He had even made up his mind 
to watch him, and it was to watch him more easily that he had not 
repelled his advances, when he had met him in the corridors of the 
opera house. He wished to have a foot in the enemy’s camp, and 
if he had resigned himself not to break with M. de Pontaumur it 
was because he was meditating a master-stroke. 

He intended shortly to bring him face to face with Delphine, and 
to be present at the explanation which wmuld be the result of the 
meeting between the false. Spaniard and the actress of the Bouffes. 
Kow, to arrive at his ends, it was necessary to sacrifice his repug- 
naiice, and keep up some connection with the soi-disant Fernando. 
But while wailing for an oppoitunily to present itself of confound- 
ing him, Coulanges would have given much to know what his 
tricky adversary was doing at this moment. 

” He must be hatching some new plot,” he thought, ” and 1 
should not be surprised if he were preparing some rascalit 3 ^ But 
what ? He can not assassinate Madame Brehal as he assassinated 
poor Saulitu; for he did assassinate him, 1 no longer doubt it. The 
juggling with the bullets was not done without his knowing it. 
He will not employ that ingenious proceeding to get rid of Madame 


164 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


Brelial; women do not tigli!. duels. But it sbe is in bis way, as^ 
Saulieu was, bo will invent another means. But bow was Sauli'eu iu 
bis way? That is what 1 have not guessed yet. It 1 knew it I 
should know all the rest, and 1 shall know it. I am the only one 
who can find the key ot the enigma. Courtenay is in no condition 
to aid me. Lovers are good tor nothing.” 

These recollections were interrupted by Mme. Brebal. Coulanges 
was seated at the back ot the box, and she turned to him to say be- 
hind her tan: 

“ Don’t you find the Don Juan type ot man intensely disagreea- 
ble? To love all women is to love none.” 

” Not only disagreeable, but ridiculous. He allows himself to be 
duped like a school-boy. Why, Zerlina herself, that little goose of 
a Zerlina, mocks him outrageously.” 

‘‘ 1 wish the same would happen to all like him.” 

” The tact is, he is punished enough, and 1 do not see why he 
should be cast into a burning abyss at the end. This torture ren- 
ders him interesting. It would be enough ior him to be ridiculous. 
His victims would be much better avenged.” 

” You are right. Contempt is the weapon 1 should use if 1 were 
pursued by a Don Juan, and 1 should be infinitely obliged to my 
friends it they did not have recourse to violent means.” 

George understood the allusion, and his face crimsoned, for he 
had not given up the idea of punishing M. de Pontaumur, when he 
should find a pretext to seek a quarrel with him without compromis- 
ing Mme. Brehal. But he said nothing, and the doctor, who con- 
curred in Mme. Brehal’s wise opininn, made no reply. The act was 
finished without rmy one speaking again, and without the reappear- 
ance of M. de Pontaumur. 

Coulanges w^as dying to go and see if he could find him in the 
foyer or corridors. After indulging in wild conjectures as to the 
motives which had led M. Corleon’s friend to leave his place, the 
doctor had reached the point of wondering if it would not be well 
to squarely accost him and lead the conversation to the lady of the 
Avenue de Villiers. The idea was dangerous, but it had its good 
side. Pontaumur might let fall some word which v/ould betray hi& 
designs. 

” Would you believe it, gentlemen? 1 came to-night in a cab,” 
said Mme. Brehal. ” i dined very late, and 1 did not wish to lose 
the first act. Now, 1 have a coachman who never has his wits 
about him, and at eight o’clock my coupe was not harnessed. The 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


165 


liorse which 1 prefer had to be shod, so 1 was forced to send for a 
cab/’ 

“But, 1 suppose, you ga^e orders to your people to come for 
you?” said Courtenay. 

“ Oh! very precise orders. The coupe is to be stationed at the 
corner of the Rue Halevy and the Boulevard Haussmann.” 

“ Why so far away?” 

“ Because Max, my favorite, is a shy animal, and hard to man 
age. When he is in a file of carriages he does not keep in his place; 
and 1 prefer to walk a few steps rather than to expose him to the ' 
noise and bustle— especially when 1 have you to accompan^^ me. 
He ought to be here already; but 1 am the worst -served woman in 
Paris, and 1 should not be astonished if my coachman w’as late.” 

“ Would you like to have me go and see?” 

“ No,” said Mine. Brehal. “ 1 would much prefer to keep you 
here, as I shall not remain till the end. 1 am a little fatigued, and 
1 have a hundred things to do to-morrow morning. 1 wdll ^o after 
hearing the serenade of the third act.” 

“ But 1 can go,” exclaimed the doctor. “ I saw your coachman 
to-day in the Champs-Elysees, and 1 shall recognize him easily.” 

“ You saw my coupe also, and Max is a dark bay. With four 
white feet.” 

“ I have more indications than 1 need. 1 will go and return in a 
few minutes. George will not be angry with me for leaving him 
with you/’ 

George, indeed, made no objection to this airangemeot, and Mme. 
Brehal thauked the doctor, who hastened to depart. 

fie made up his mind to run to the Boulevard Haussmann, speak 
to the coachman, and immediately return to hunt for M. de Pontau- 
mur. 

But it was written above that the doctor should never do what he 
intended to do. 

He was in such a hurry to undertake his expedition that he did 
not take his overcoat. The season permitted him, however, to show 
himself in his evening dress in the streets which adjoin the opera 
house, and a gentleman, whose place is on the first tier, does not 
promenade in the foyer with his overcoat on. 

The doctor rapidly descended the staircase, and reached the en- 
trance without meeting the n.an whom he proposed to seek on his 
return. He did not stop, but hastened along the Rue Halevy. A 
solitary carriage was stationed where the Boulevard Haussmann 
crosses the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin, a carriage which he took at 


166 


THE COHSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL, 


first for Mine. Brelial’s. As he approached he perceived that he 
was mistaken. It was indeed a coupe, but the coachman wore a 
coat with three capes, and the horse was a sorrel. 

“1 could swear that that is the dark green coupe into which 
Pontaumur slipped in the Champs-Elysees,'' thought Coulanges. 
“"Yes, it is the same; there are the wooden blinds. Oh! oh! the 
mystery becomes complicated. But this time 1 shall find out some- 
thing, tor 1 shall mount guard near this box of surprises.” 

He thought for a moment of questioning the coachman, but he 
very soon reflected that the man had doubtless orders to be silent, 
and that he would be able to extract aosolutely nothing from him. 
It would be better to watch at a distance, and this he decided to do. 
He continued his way therefore, and he finally perceived at the end 
of the street another coupe which was certainly Mme. BrehaUs. 

Now was the time to diseharge his mission, and then he could 
return to establish himself as a sentinel near the suspicious coupe! 

He passed the carriage to examine it closer, to be sure that he was 
not mistaken. The dark bay with four white feet was there, and 
moreover the monogram, G. B., appeared upon the door. The 
coachman, besides, recognized him at once as the gentleman 
who had spoken to his mistress in the Champs-Elysees, and imme- 
diately assumed the classic pose of fashionable drivers, the reins 
wellgathered together in the left hand, the whip resting upriaht 
upon the right leg, and the eyes fixed between the ears of the horse. 

“ I see that you are at your post,” said Coulanges. “ Madame 
Brehal has sent me to tell you that she will he here in three quar- 
ters of an hour.” 

“Monsieur may count upon my not budging,” responded the 
coachman; and, as he saw that the doctor was disposed to talk, he 
added: “ 1 have no wish to have any accident. My norse is nerv- 
ous, and he runs away for nothing. You can do nothing with him 
in the midst of carriages. 1 only drive him where there is not much 
passing.” 

“ Madame was right not to risk him in front of the opera house, 
then?” said Coulanges.” 

“ Madame would do much better to sell him, but madame keeps 
him for his looks.” 

“ Yes; a dark bay, with white feet, is not bad.” 

“ But he is no good. The' mare which 1 had this afternoon, 
when madame went to the Bois—ah! she is a different animal! But 
jl needs a strong hand to hold this one; he drags this little coupe 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


IG? 


like a feather, and when he is in motion, you have to keep an eye 
on him all the time.” 

“ He does appear shy.” 

‘‘ Shy? Why, five minutes before monsieur appeared, a boy 
touched him as he passed; well, he gave me a jerk; my hands hurt 
me still. 1 should not dare to leave my box for an instant, for a 
crack oi a whip, or a door suddenly shut, and away he would go, 
like a shot.” 

” The devil! The dark bay is a dangerous beast. Fortunately, 
you know how to manage him.” 

” Oh, as for that, 1 know my business.” 

The doctor, while talking, had not lost sight of the dark-greea 
coupe, which remained motionless thirty feet behind. The two 
carriages were facing the same way, and Mme. Brebal’s coachman 
could not see the other. It was, therefore, useless to ask him if the 
mysterious coupe had been there for a long time oi if any one had 
got out of it. Besides, Coulanges thought that he had talked long 
enouah with a servant, and did not care to continue the conversation,, 

”1 will tell Madame Brehal that you are ready,” he said, turns- 
ing back toward the opera house. 

He passed again quite close to the carriage with wooden hlirids.; 
the coachman seemed to be asleep, and paid no attention to him. But, 
as he reached the corner of the Riie Gluck, the doctor saw, in the 
deserted Chaussee d’Antin, a man wdio had his back turned towaid 
him, and who was talking with some one. The general appearance 
of this man reminded him of the gentleman he was seeking, and he 
advanced a little to see his profile. It was indeed Pontaumur, and 
he w^as speaking to an individual dressed in a long white blouse, 
and with a slouched cap on his head. 

This conference in the middle of the street between a gentleman 
and a collectcr of cigar-stubs was eminently suspicious, and the first 
idea which came to Coulanges wms to intervene unexpectedly, in 
order to surprise the conspiracy. Buf this would have been a mis- 
take, and Coulanges, after reflectiou, judged that it would be belter 
to observe these people at a distance, see what they were going lo 
do, follow them it they went off together, and accost Pontaumur at 
the moment he separated from his strange companion. 

‘‘ If 1 should interrupt their colloquy,” he tliDught, with reason, 
” Pontaumui would have no difficulty in inventins: an explanation, 
and 1 should not know how to justify such an abrupt intrusion upon 
his affairs. He would perceive that I wished to penetrate his se- 
crets, and he would be on his guard against me. 1 shall learn much 


168 THE CONSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 

more by contenting myselt with a discreet surveillance, for at pres- 
ent he does not suspect that 1 am here, and he will act as if no one 
were noticing him/’ 

This calculation was a correct one. Pontaumur and the man 
walked side by side toward the Boulevard Haussmann, without leav- 
ing the middle of the street or looking behind them. Ooulanges, 
who followed them, keeping close to the houses, could observe them 
ill his ease. The man in a blouse was of very short stature; his 
head scarcely came to Pontaumur’s shoulder, but Pontaumur was 
nearly six feet. They seemed to understand one another perfectly, 
for they talked animatedly, and Pontaumur used many gestures. 
Ooulanges even imagined that his gestures referred to the dark- 
gieen coupe, which could not be seen, but which was on the other ' 
side of the massive constructions between the Rue Gluck and the 
Rue Halevy. His right hand was often raised, and his forefinger 
pointed in that d’rection, as the finger of a general before ihe com- 
bat points out, to an aid who is to execute his orders, the place on . 
the battle-field where Ihe principal effort is to be made. 

When they reached the end of the street, the two talkers turned 
obliquely, and passed belore the court which is in front of the vast 
buildings occupied by the management of the opera. This is a very 
crowded corner, while representations are going on; the artists enter , 
and leave from there, and their carriages wait for them at that 
point; the coachmen are gathered together upon tlie broad sidewalk, 
and Ihe stage-carpenters come and go from behind the scenes to the - 
wine shop opposite. It is not difficult to be lost in this crowd, and 
the doctor hastened his steps, for fear of missing the trail, for the 
game he was chasing had already disappejired behind a row of car- 
riages. Ooulanges came out upon the court just as M. de Pontau- 
mur had stopped a cab, which was crossing the square. 

The man in the blouse had turned ba^, and was advancing so as 
to meet the doctor, whom he doubtless had not noticed. Pontau- 
mur entered the cab, and was driven away toward the Rue Scribe. 
Ooulanges, who could not hope to catch up with him, stopped 
short, and stepped aside, so as to leave the passage free; the chief 
had escaped him, but he counted upon seeing the face of the subor- * 
dinate. Unfortunately, the latter raised his eyes, perceived him, 
turned about, and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. 

Ooulanges had no time to see his face, and, as he was in evening 
dress, without an overcoat, he (lid not attempt to pursue him. He 
remained where he was, very much annoyed at his failure, and . 
troubled enough by this odd incident. . 


THE COJiTSEQUEIs^CES OF A DUEL. 


169 


M. (le Pontaumur’s intimacy with a street scavenger furnishetl 
him will) food foi reflection; but he could not unravel the meaning 
of it. What could Maurice Saulieu's dishonest adversary be plot- 
ting with this queer companion? Was he preparing something 
against Mme. Brehal? That was impossible; in the heart of Paris* 
at ten o’clock in the evening, there is nothing to be feared from vio- 
lence. 

The doctor, comprehending ncflhing of it all, resolved to throw 
00* the responsibility by relating to Courtenay what he had seen and 
even all that he knew. The time for silence was past, it was nec- 
essary to put an end to the maneuvers of a band of rascals who 
were plotting in secret about Mme. Brehal, and it was only right to 
point out their actions to the future husband of this charming 
woman. 

Coulangcs hastened back to the opera house, and entered, with- 
out stopping on the way. The third act had been in progress for 
over a i(iiarter of an hour, and there was nobody in the corridors 
but the box-openers. The one who had charge of Mme. Brehal’s 
box conducted the doctor there, and the latter was no little surprised 
not to find George. 

Mme. Brehal was alone, leaning forward to listen to the exquisite 
trio: Nuit fraiche et nuit sereine/* and she was so much under 
the charm of the enchanting music that she did not turn at the 
slight noise of the opening door. She made a sign with her tan for 
Coulanges to sit down without speaking, and he took good care not 
to open his mouth; but he thought he might occupy the chair next 
her, which Courtenay’s departure had left vacant. 

When the trio was over, Mme. Brehal said to him: 

“You will pardon me, will you not? I can not hear that air 
without being deeply moved, and 1 love emotions. But it is over. 
1 am delighted to see you again, and we will talk until the sere- 
nade.’’ 

The doctor began by asking what had become of his friend. 

“ George has left me,’’ answered the chatelaine of the Avenue de 
Villiers, “ to his great regret, but it could not be avoided.” 

” Why, what has happened for him to give up the pleasure of be- 
ing near you?” 

“ Oh! nothing serious. His notary, knowing, 1 don’t know^ how, 
that he was at the opera in my box, sent him a letter to ask him to 
come to him immediately.” 

“ That is very singular. At this hour, notaries are abed, or, seri- 
ously speaking, they do not occupy themselves after dinner with 


170 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


ilie business of their clients. There is no question yet ot signing 
the contract.” 

‘‘Unfortunately, no,” said Mme. Brehal, smiling. ‘‘But until 
that happy evening comes we must think a little of the happiness 
of others. George thought that the notary had an important com- 
munication to make to him in regard to his friend’s will. I thought 
so also, and 1 advised him to so at once. You know that this will 
has made Mademoiselle Mezenc soje legatee, and that she refuses to 
profit by it; who knows it the good notary has not found a means 
of persuading her to accept.” 

‘‘ Do you think that he is so much interested in the lady as that?” 

‘‘ He does not know her, but he knows that she was to marry 
George’s friend, and George is one of his best clients.” 

‘‘ Notaries are not so zealous usually. But we shall soon know, 
for George is to return, 1 suppose.” 

‘‘ No. The notary lives in the Hue Babylon, at the end of the 
Faubourg Saint-Germain. It is quite a journey, and as 1 wished to 
return home early, 1 have counted upon you to accompany me to 
my carriage.” 

” I am at your orders, madame.” 

” George wished me to tell you that he would go to his club and 
wait for you there, even if it should please you to remain at the 
opera until the end of the performance.” 

” 1 shall join him, certainly, but I shall not return here after 
your departure. Without you, madame, the opera would have no 
charm tor me.” 

” Am 1 to take that declaration as an avowal of musical indiffer- 
ence, or as a compliment to me?” 

” In the latter case it would be a clumsy one. 1 simply told you 
the truth. 1 always make the mistake ot not disguising my 
thoughts.” 

‘‘ Mistake! It is an excellent good quality, and upon that point, 
as upon a!I others, we agree perfectly. Do you know, doctor, 1 
count upon you to aid George to bear a change of life for which he 
is little prepared? Our marriage was decided so quickly.” 

” George is the happiest ot men, and 1 assure you, madame,^ that 
he will never regret his past life.” 

” 1 hope so. But, after the wedding journey, we shall inhabit 
my house in the Avenue de Villiers, and we shall be solitary it you 
abandon us, for 1 intend to considerably restrict the circle ot my 
acquaintances. Society has no more attraction for me, and one 
friend will suffice.” 


THE COiTSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


171 


“ 1 shall be very proud to be that friend, and that hope alone 
would strengthen determination to remain a bachelor.” 

” 1 understand; you want to warn me beforehand, but hare no 
fear; 1 promise solemnly not to attempt anything against your lib- 
erty, and 1 even acknowledge that 1 made a mistake in seeking a 
wife for you. You are not ready for marriage.” 

” And 1 think 1 never shall be.” 

‘‘ The ‘ Serenade * will be sung in a few moments and then we 
will go. 1 suppose that you discovered my coachman?” 

“Easily, madanie. He is at his post, at the end of the Rue 
Halevy. 1 even spoke to him, and he confided to me his uneasiness 
in regard to the dark bay.” 

“ My coachman is a coward and my dark bay is a love. Every 
time 1 ride behind him, he gives me a slight sensation of fear, which 
1 delight in?” 

“ And if he should run away, my dear madame?” 

“ If he should run away 1 should not lose my head. He has al- 
ready played me that trick once or twice, and 1 did not stir.” 

“ That was brave of you, but carriage accidents are always seri- 
ous.” 

“ YVell, if one happens to me you shall cure me. For I have pro- 
moted you, without your permission, to the post of ph 3 ’sician in 
ordinary to Madame George Courtenay.” 

“ You do me too much honor. 1 practice so little that 1 have 
almost forgotten all that 1 knew. So 1 hope that you will never 
have need of my science.” x / 

“lam wonderfully w^ell, but whatever happens, I have faith in ^ ^ 
you, doctor, and I should never call in any one else if 1 were ill. M 
So consider yourself appointed.” 

“ Oh! 1 do not refuse, but — ” 

“ Not a word more, please. The ‘ Serenade ’ is commencing. 1 
am going to listen.” 

Coulanges could not do less than listen too, that is, be silent, 
although his imagination was very much excited. Pontaumur’s 
maneuvers were never out of his mind and George’s absence wor- 
ried him. He did not believe at all in this summons by the notary, 
and wondered if Courtenay had invented it as a pretext to go, or if f‘ 
this strange sending of a letter were only a machination of his 
enemies to entice him away from the theater. 

This last hypothesis was, in tact, the only one which the doctor 
admitted, for George was loo much in love to be bored near Mme. 
Brehal. What made Coulanges despair w^as being obliged to liidQ 


17^ THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

trom her his suppositions and conceal his tears. The lady of the 
Avenue de Yilliers, knowiui? nothing of the situation, was in no 
position to be enlightened. What would be the use of troubling 
her by informing her of what was taking place about her? It 
would be much belter to protect her as she went out, and then to 
hasten to the club, where George would not fail to come. 

“ There, 1 will have an explanation with him,” thought Cou- 
langes, ” and 1 will hide nothing of what 1 know. The time is 
come to act.” 

The ‘‘ Serenade ” was sung in a manner to make one regret Faure, 
who sings so well that delicious air, but Mme. Brehal loved Mozart 
tor himself: she listened with passionate atiention, and, when it 
was over, the doctor saw that her eyes were full of tears. 

“ Let us go,” she said. ” That * Serenade ’ alw'ays makes my heart 
beat. It seems to me that George is singing it to me, and 1 long to 
appear on my balcony. But 1 am talking tolly, and it Is time that 
you took me away.” 

The doctor concurred in this opinion, and hastened to open the 
door of the box; he aided Mme. Brehal to put on her cloak and 
offered her his arm. The act was not over, the corridors were de- 
serted and the grand staircase had not the brilliant aspect it has at 
the close of the performance, when siIks and laces trail over the 
marble steps, and it takes ten minutes to descend. In the vestibule, 
there was no one, except here and there a footman waiting for his 
master’s appearance, and outside, there were a few spectators, blase 
/.fn regard to music, who preferred to smoke a cigar in the open air 
rather than to hear the statue of the commander accept Don Juan’s 
inviiation. Pontaumur was not among them. 

” What a beautiful evening!” said Mme, Brehal, leaning upon 
Coulangfcs’ arm. ” it is lovely to bieathe the air under that starry 
sky. If George were with us, I should propose to go to the cas- 
cade in the B-us de Boulogne.” 

“ Your physician in ordinary would forbid it,” responded Cou- 
langes. ” Nmt fraiche et nuit sereine is charming to sing in Spain, 
but, in Paris, in spring, it is very unhealthy.” 

‘‘ And then George has made an appointment with you, doctor; 
so lake me quickly to my carriage and regain your liberty.” 

Coulanges asked nothing better. As they walked along by the 
balustrade which surrounded the opera house, he glanced up the 
Rue Halevy, and saw, with satisfaction, that the dark green coupe 
was no longer there. This coupe always gave him the idea of a 


THE COKSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


173 


machine of war, which had enemies hidden within it, like the 
Homeric horse at Troy. 

On the other hand, Mme Brehal’s carriage had not changed its 
place, and this was a sure asylum, a refuge against all attacks. 

“ li^ou see, Max liasn’t stirred, said Mme. Brehal. “He is a 
much slandered animal.” 

“ It seems to me that he is terribly uqeasy,” muttered Coulanges. 

This was true. Max was stamping his teet and the sparks flew 
from under his hoofs; the coachman, erect upon his box, seemed to 
have difficulty in holding him. 

Coulanges judged that it was time to calm the fractious dark bay 
by a smart trot to the Avenue de Yilliers, and he harried as much 
as he could without distuibing his companion. 

They were not ten feet from the coupe, when he noticed a wdiite 
form against the dark background of one of the houses and sep- 
arated from Max only by the width of the sidewalk. 

Mme. Brehal had per3eived this figure also, for she exclaimed: 

“ Do you know why Max is uneasy? There is a man standing 
there near him. Max is like well-bred dogs; he does not allow 
ragged people to approach him. My coachman, who knows his 
character, should have changed his place.” 

“ 1 am not at all sure that that fellow in a blouse would not have 
followed him,” replied Coulanges. “ He has been loafing about 
your carriage before, this evening; your coachman told me so.” 

“ Do you think he has evil designs? You appear uneasy.” . 

“ Ho— but I think 1 have seen him before, near by, and 1 wbu- 
der what he is doing here.” 

“ He is some poor fellow who is watching for the opportunity of . 
making a few sous, by opening the door.” 

“ 1 tear that he is watching for something else, but 1 will take 
care to prevent him from doing any harm.” 

“If 1 were timid, my dear doctor, you would end by alarming 
me. But 1 am all the more tranquil, as I have no enemies.” 

“ One always has enemies,” murmured George’s friend. He 
could now see more clearly the man whom he had surprised, half 
an hour before, talking with M. de Pontaumur. There was no 
doubt but that it was the same one, and this time he stood motion- 
less in the hollow ot a door-way. He evidently had some purpose in 
taking his position there quite near the blue coupe. He was wait- 
ing for Mme. Brehal, and he knew very well 1 hat the coachman 
could not leave his box to drive him away, on account of Max’s 
temper, and he took good care to keep out of the reach of the whip. 


174 


THE COiq’SEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


“ He will fly when he sees me,” thought the doctor; but, on the 
contrary, the man stood firm. 

Coulanges would have liked to catch him by the collar, but he 
could not desert Mine. Brehal. 

‘‘ Don’t you see that it is a boy?” she whispered. ” How he 
would laugh at us, it he suspected that he trighteued us tor a mo- 
ment, but he is not thinking of us.” 

The doctor did not try to prove the contrary to the future Mme. 
Courtenay. He had conceived a plan, the execution ot which 
seemed easy to him, a plan which consisted in falling upon this sus- 
picious character as soon as the coupe had departed. 

“it madame would get in at once,” said the coachman, “it 
would be well, tor the horse is restive.” 

“ 1 shall see you soon, my dear doctor,” said Mme. Brehal, with 
a trank shake of the hand. “ Remind George that I expect him 
to-morrow, and come and dine with us, if you do not fear to ba 
bored with two lovers.” 

Coulanges did not take time to answer. He was longing to attack 
the man in the blouse, who had not stirred. 

He opened the carriage door, aided Mme. Brehal and turned to 
give the coachman his orders, when he saw the man in the door-w'ay 
clear the breadth ot the sidewalk in three bounds, and jump at the 
head of the dark bay. 

What took place then lasted fewer seconds than it will take to 
relate it. 

Coiilanges instantly closed the door and rushed upon the strange 
assailant who had dared to lay his hand upon Max. At the same 
moment, the coachman aimed at the rascal a vigorous blow with 
his whip. 

But, whether the lash touched Max’s ears or the noise of the vio- 
lently closed door frightened him, the nervous animal started off at 
a frighttul pace. The doctor was in no position to stop him, so he 
thought only ot seizing the culprit. 

“ Ah! you scoundrel!” he cried. “ I have you at last!” 

But he did not have him at all. The'fellow had taken to his heels 
and was lunning with all his might. Coulanges started bravely 
after him, but not before he had lost some seconds in gazing after 
the horse which bore Mme. Brehal away, and who seemed to know 
no longer what he w^as about, for he was galloping like mad. He 
saw the coachman adroitly avoid the refuges placed tor the security 
ot foot-passengers and the perdition ot carriages at the intersection 


THE COKSEQUEISTCES OF A DUEL. 


175 


t)t six large streets, and direct Max toward the longest and straightest 
of the six, which is the Rue Lafayette. 

“ Lie has run away, that is clear,” thought Coulanges, “ but he 
has space before him and he will finally calm down, if he doesn’t, 
:Strike against anything.” 

The fugitive had taken the opposite side of the street, and the 
doctor’s hesitation, short as it had been, had given him time to make 
some headway. He ran like a deer up the Boulevard Haussmann, and 
he had almost reached the Hue Mogador, when the gentleman who 
had given him chase perceived the dark-green coupe. 

That accursed coupe was stationed there, and Coulanges immedi- 
ately understood that Pontaumur’s agent was again about to escape 
him; the carriage door was already open to receive him. 

“ Stop thief!” cried the poor doctor, who felt himself distanced. 

Unfortunately the passers-by were few. One or two turned, but 
they did not comprehend, and before one of them thought of bar- 
ring his way, the fellow leaped into the carriage, which whipped oft 
and disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. 

Coulanges, in exasperation, could willingly have beaten the im- 
beciles who had not obeyed his call; but he soon recovered himself 
^nd felt that it would be as ridiculous to complain as to follow on 
foot the green coupe. It would be much better to turn back and 
try to find out what had become of Mme. Brehal, and this he did. 

He knew only too soon. 

When he reached the square where the Rue Lafayette commences,, 
he perceived almost at the entrance of the street and upon the left 
side a crowd collected, which appeared to him of very bad augury. 

The doctor was of the opinion of Alfred de Musset, who wrote 
these lines: 

“ Quand le peuple s’assemble ainsi, 

C’est toujours sur quelque ruine.” 

And he was right, for the mad course of the dark bay had ended 
in a catastrophe, less than a hundred yards from the place where he 
started. 

There is a vacant space between the new street "and the Cite 
d’Antin, and in the middle of this vacant space a sort of little monu- 
ment, which one would take for a fountain, but which is really only 
an ornamental construction of stone and brick. 

The coachman, just here, to avoid striking a large omnibus, had 
been obliged to turn Max to the left; unfortunately he was no longer 
master of his horse, and the furious dark bay had hurled himself 
•against the first obstacle he met with. 


176 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


The crowd, which the accident had attracted, made way for 
Coiilanges when they knew that he was a physician, and he saw the 
horse extended on his side, the coupe broken, and the coachman 
seated upon the pavement and supported by two men. But he did 
not stop to contemplate these disasters; he was seeking for Mme. 
Brehal, and he found her a little further on, lying upon a cushion 
which had been taken out of the cariiage, her head resting at the 
foot of the unlucky edifice against which Max bad met his death. 
The doctor’s heart stopped beating for an instant, for he thought 
she was dead, she was so pale; but she had already recovered con- 
sciousness, and she said, forcing herself to smile- 

“Is it you, my dear doctor? 1 knew that you would come to my 
rescue.” 

“ 1 hope that you are not seriously hurt!” faltered Coulanges,. 
more moved than she. 

“ 1 think both my legs are broken.” 

“ That will be nothing. Is there no cut on the head or the 
breast?” 

“ No. At least, 1 don’t feel any pain.” 

‘‘ Then you can bear transportation, and 1—” 

“ 1 have sent to the station for a covered litter,” remarked a po- 
liceman. 

As Coulanges was about to protest, Mme. Brehal said gently; “ It 
was right, for 1 could not enter a carriage, and you can not examine 
me here. While we are waiting, will you have the kindness to see 
if my poor coachman is not in a worse plight than 1 am?” 

“ No, raadame, no,” said the policeman. “ They say he is only 
out of his head. By Jove! 1 can understand it; he must have been 
frightened to death. But he is coming round, and he wiil be abie 
to walk in a quarter of an hour.” 

“ Thanks, monsieur,” responded Mme. Brehal, with astonishing 
coolness. “ But no matter; go and examine him, doctor, and come 
back and tell me just how he is.” 

“ Since you wish it, 1 will go,” said Coulanges, admiring her 
courage and kindness of heart. 

The coachman, in fact, was wandering a little. J’o all the doc- 
tor’s questions he responded with incoherent sentences: 

“ The knave! the brigand! 1 know very well what he wanted 
with my horse — it was he who caused the trouble— the ear—he 
touched Max’s ear— he put something in it.” 

“ He doesn’t know what he is talking about,” said one of Jibe men 
who were supporting him. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL, 


177 


Coulanges was not precisely of this opinion. He understood very 
well what the woids meant, and they opened to him new horizons. 

“ 1 ought to have broken his head with the butt of my whip/" 
continued the coachman, but he will bear my marks. 1 lashed 
him across the face.*" 

“ That is a good thing to remember,*’ thought Coulanges. And 
he said aloud: “Be calm, my man, be calm; you have nothing 
broken, and you will be taken home. 1 shall remain to accompany 
madame, but 1 shall see you again and make a thorough examina- 
tion.” 

With this promise, the doctor hastened to return to Mme. Brehal, 
and he did no* see the coachman stoop over to pick up gome object 
which he had noticed lying between two paving-stones. 


CHAPTER X. 

In leaving Mme. Brehal, Courtenay had obeyed a very praise- 
worthy sentiment. He did not exactly understand the letter which 
summoned him to the Hue de Babylon, but he thought himselt bound 
to neglect nothing to assure the execution of his unfortunate friend’s 
last wishes. And there was all the more merit in his acting in this 
way, as he was only moderately interested in Maurice Saulieu’s 
heiress. The letter was not in the notary’s handwriting, but in th -t 
of one of his clerks, and this clerk did not sign legibly, for George 
could not decipher his name. But the paper bore the business 
heading of the firm, and there appeared to be no doubt of the au- 
thenticity of the summons. 

If Courtenay had taken time to reflect, he would have wondered 
how the notary knew the numbei'^f Mme. Brehal’s box. The box-^ 
opener, who had given him the note, said that an employe of the, 
theater had brought it to her, after receiving it from the hands of a 
messenger. 

The address was as clear and explicit as possible: “ Monsieur 
George Courtenay, Madame Brehal’s Box. First Tier. Right 
Side.” And the word “ Urgent,” was written in the corner. 

The idea of there being anything wrong never entered George’s 
head, and after a short and tender conversation with Mme. Brehal, 
who announced her intention of returning home early, he left the 
opera house and took a cab, which brought him in halt an hour to 
the Rue de Babylon. There, George found, before the door of the 
house where he had business, a crowd of carriages, and, on raising 


178 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

liis eyes, he gaw that the windows of his notary’s apartment were 
brilliantly lighted. A party of some sort was evidently being given 
there, and something of great importance must have happened for 
the notary to occupy himself this evening with the interests of nis 
clients. 

George entered, and, as he was in full evening dress, the servants 
took him for an invited guest. He told them that he wished to 
speak to their master, but they did not understand his words and 
ushered him into the presence of the mistress of the house, who was 
surrounded by numerous friends. 

Courtenay had met her once or twice, and he was obliged to go 
forward and pay his respects. This politeness drew from the lady 
an avalanche of disjointed sentences, where compliments and ex- 
cuses were inextricably mixed. iShe thanked him for having come 
and asked his pardon for not having invited him, alleging as an ex- 
cuse that the party was, in a certain sense, a profes iunal one; the 
notary had given a dinner to several of his colleagues, and almost 
all, who were present, were connected in some way with the law. 
But she hoped to make amends soon, and she trusted that Mme. 
Brehal, after she had become Mme. Courtenay, would embellish 
with her presence a ball given in her honor. 

George, to cut short this torrent of words, did not deem it best to 
explain the reason of his presence. This would have furnished new 
fqod for a conversation which annoyed him. He preferred to reply 
with phrases of ordinary courtesy, and, as soon as he could, he beat 
a retreat to seek the notary. 

He found him in another room, seated at a whist .table, and, to 
his great surprise, he obtained only a smile from him, when he ex- 
pected him to leave his game at once and come to him. 

This indifference passed all bounds, and Courtenay had decided 
to ask him to rise, when he saw that the rubber was ended. Others 
cut in, and the notary yielded his place. But George’s surprise 
changed to bewilderment, when he heard the master of the house 
repeat the excuses of his wife. 

This time, he did not hesitate to interrupt, saying: 

“ Shall we go into your study? 1 will hear the communication 
you have to make to me and you can return to your guests.” 

“ The communication? 1 have nothing new to tell you,” said the 
notary. ” My head clerk is occupied in preparing the contract, 
but — ” 

” It was not in regard to the contract 1 came, but in regard to 
Maurice Saulieu’s will. 1 have your letter here—” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


179 


‘ What lettei?” 

“ The one 1 received at the opera.” 

” 1 have not written you since yesterday, my dear monsieur.” 

” But some one has written in your name. See!” 

The notary took the letter which George drew from his pocket, 
but he had scarcely glanced at it, when he exclaimed: 

” This is a jest, my dear monsieur, a detestable jest.” 

” Then, it was not one of your clerks who signed this?” 

‘‘ My clerks would not permit themselves to play such a trick on 
one of my best clients. This letter is the work of some practical 
joker.” 

” 1 begin to think so, but 1 can not understand the object of it.” 

‘* Nor 1 either. April-fooEs-day is past, and I can not compre- 
hend it, unless some one had an interest in drawing you away from 
the theater wnere you were, with Madame Brehal perhaps.” 

‘‘ Yes, with her, and certaiul}^ 1 would gladly have remained 
there. But this does not explain to me why—” 

” It explains nothing. And what is the strangest part of this 
singular affair is that the anonymous writer, to play you this bad 
turn, must have known that the will had been sent to me.” 

” 1 am very much inclined to think that the letter and will were 
sent by the same hand.” 

” Possibly, but — ” 

” How are you progressing with the heiress?” 

” We are still at the same point. 1 wrote to her to notify her of- 
her inheritance and to ask her to come to my office. But she did not 
come, and she has not even taken the trouble to answer me.” 

” Then you don’t know whether she has filed a regular renuncia- 
tion of the legacy?” 

” If she had done so, 1 should have been informed of it, and that 
is why I am sure that there is no change in the situation. I may 
say that 1 should not be very much surprised if she should end by 
quietly accepting the bequest. One does not give tip twenty thou- 
sand francs a year for nothing.” 

‘‘ 1 agree with you on that point. But 1 care litt'e what Made- 
moiselle Mezenc does. The thing that interests me is that my mar- 
riage with Madame Brehal should not be delayed by the maneuvers 
of my enemies or hers, and w’hat has happened to me this evening 
is a warning. 1 shall be on my guard, hereafter. It would be w^ell, 
in the first place, that Madame Brehal should know of this, and 1 
shall rejoin her without losing an instant.” 

The notary felt obliged to urge his client to slay, but George had 


180 


THE COKSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


no desire to remain at this reunion of serious-looking men and over- 
dressed women. Ue departed, after hastily taking leave of the mis- 
tress of the house, and entered his cab, which he had kft at the 
door. 

He hoped to find Mme. Brehal at the opera, but the two journeys, 
back and forth, and the talks with the notary and the notary’s wife, 
had consumed fully an hour and a fjuarter, so that, when he reached 
Mine. BrehaUs box. he found no one there. He. was greatly annoyed 
at this, tor he wished to tell her of his expedition, and ask her to 
whom she attributed this evidently malicious letter. But he could 
scarcely permit himself, at such an hour, to go to her house and con 
«uU her, and, besides, he did not feel the slightest uneasiness on her 
account, for he knew that she liad left with Coulanges, who w(»uld 
be a sufficient protection, and whom he was soon to meet at the 
club. 

He started away from the opera house, smoking a cigar, and, as 
he walked down the boulevard, he heard some people standing at 
the corner of the Chaussee d’ Antin, speak of an accident to a car- 
riage not far from there, but it never enteied his head to connect the 
wmrds with Mme. Brehal’s coupe. 

Paris is so constituted that one passes close to catastrophes with- 
out thinking anything about them, and a husband may see a body 
borne along on a litter, without suspecting that it is the body of his 
wife. 

Courtenay was thinking only of the disagreeable experience he 
had passed through, and he made up his mind to discover the author 
of the letter, which he had kept. He hoped that chance would 
furnish him with the Opportunity to recognize the handwriting by 
comparing it with thatol the persons he suspected of plotting against 
his peace; and he naturally intended to commence by showing the 
letter to Dr. Coulanges, who had already shown proofs of his 
sagacity in such circumstances. 

With this resolve Courtenay entered the club a little before mid- 
nignt jind was astonished enough not to find his friend there. It 
was in vain that he visited all the rooms, he could not discover Cou- 
langes, who should have arrived before him. it he had only con- 
ducted Mme. Brehal to her carriage. 

He did not suppose for a single instant that he had accompanied 
her to the Avenue de Villiers, and he accused him mentally of having 
gone off to supper somewhere. He knew the doctor’s habits, and 
he thought him quite capable of wandering off, after the opera, to 
-the Restaurant du Helder, or the Cafe Americain; but he was in no 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


181 


Humor to go and seek for him, and he decided to wait at the club, 
for he knew ivell that Coulanges would not go so far as to forget at 
a gay supper that he had made an appointment with an intimate 
friend. 

Courtenay, besides, had not the least desire to go to sleep, and he 
would have no trouble in passing away an hour or two, for there 
were plenty to talk to and he was not an enemy to play, if he found 
a party to his liking. 

He wandered into the red salon, when he was accosted by a man 
whom he hf‘ld in great esteem and whom he always liked to meet, 
although there was a great difterence in their ages. 

“ My dear monsieur,” said this person, wdio was called the Count 
de baint-benier, “ 1 was looking for you to ask your advice in re- 
gal d to a painful but necessary proceeding to be taken against one 
of the members of the club.” 

The Moucherons is not one of those clubs which are governed by 
■direct universal suffrage, but by a directory, elected by ail the mem- 
bers who delegate to it the sovereign authority. This directory, 
renewable each year, decides upon the admission ot candidates and 
also, in cases ot necessity, the expulsions. 

Courtenay had formerly been a member, and, when his term ex- 
pired, M. de ISaint-Senier had taken his place. It was quite natural, 
therefore, that this gentleman should consult Courtenay in a delicate 
case, and Courtenay could not dispense with giving his advice, 
although, tor some time past, he had not been very much interested 
in the management of the club. 

** It doubtless has to do with the posting of gaming debts not paid 
within the proper time,” he said. “ For my part, 1 find the rule a 
little too severe, and 1 think that it should be applied only to men 
who are manifestly dishonest. To post a good fellow who has been 
led on to lose more than he can pay the next day, or even in two 
or three days, strikes me as rather hard, my dear count.” 

“You have the right to be indugent, because you are irreproach- 
able,” answered M. de Saint Scnier. ” And, moreover, 1 think as 
you do, that before resorting to exireme measures, the moral stand- 
ing of the delinquents should be taken into consideration. But 
the question botore us is a much graver one.” 

” Really? What is u then?” 

** A niember of the club has been denounced to the directory as 
dishonest at cards.” 

‘‘ Whatl There is cheating going on here?” 


182 


TITB CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


“ The fact, up to the present, has not been proven, but some one 
has been accused.” 

” Ot stacking the canfs?” 

” Not positively, because no one has seen him; but it is supposed 
so, because it is stated that he does not bet correctly. He advances 
or retires his chips as he has good or bad luck.” 

” AVell, in that case, there can be no cause for hesitation. The 
man who allows himself to indulge in such irregularities is a ras- 
cal who should be pitilessly driven from the society of decent men.” 

” 1 agree with 5^011, if he is caught in the act, and if any one will 
denounce him openly. But, in such cases, no one cares to do so.” 

” 1 would, 1 assure you, if 1 should perceive him at his tricks; 
and 1 can not conceive how any one could act otherwise. To be 
silent is to become the accomplice of a knave, since silence insures 
him impunity. The duty of every honest man is to prevent him 
from continuing.” 

” All that is very true, but 1 think that we are all interested in 
avoiding a scandal.” 

” What! you would tolerate such actions?” 

” No, certainly not; but w*e are seeking a means to put an end to 
them, without creating any disturbance, and 1 think we are right, 
for this reason. A great outcry is made just now against clubs. 
Certain newspapers do not hesitate to qualify them as gambling 
hells, and it must be acknowledged that, for some, the qualification 
is deserved.” 

” The bad practice of other clubs does not touch us.” 

'* It is certain that we have never had any scandalous stories here, 
and it is precisely because we are immaculate that we desire to keep 
^spotless our robe ot innocence. If it should be known to-morrow 
that a man had been caught cheating at the Moucherous what wmuld 
be said? The so-called clubs where this happens every year would 
be the first to rail against us. lire event w^ould be known all over 
Paris, and commented upon, to the great detriment of our good 
name.” 

‘‘ That is possible, but is not so bad as harboring a thief among 
us. Betw'een two evils, we must choose the leasr.” 

” Unless we can succeed in avoiding them both.” 

” By what process?” 

” 1 have thought of a plan which 1 would like to submit to you. 
It seems to me that it would he suflacient to wmrn the culprit, to 
satisfy justice. If, for example, during the progress ot a game, a 
letter should be brought to him, containing these words: ‘Cease, 


THE- COKSEQUEis^CES OE A DUEL. 183 

Toil are discovered,’ or sotaetliing like them, 1 think that he would 
leave the table at once and never return.” 

“ I am not sure ot that. A fellow' of that kind might not take any 
notice ot an anonymous warning, tor J don’t suppose the directory 
would sign it.” 

” No. The directory has delegated its powers to Becherel and 
myself. We are appointed to investigate the matter secretly, and to 
end it without publicity, if possible. But in case the person, after 
being warned, should have the impudence to come again to the 
club, we are perfectly resolved to give orders to have him forbid- 
den to enter it, and, it he asks tor explanations, we will be there to 
answer him.” 

“Yes, that is feasible; although, on principle, 1 do not like 
anonymous letters. But, if he resists the written communication — ” 

” He will not resist it. 1 have observed him for a long time, and 
1 am sure that he will quietly disappear. It is in his natuie to do 
so.’* 

This response made Courtenay think that it might be some one he 
knew. 

” 1 do not ask his name,” he said. 

‘‘ And 1 can not tell it to you because we have agreed to tell no 
one. As you know, the members of a directory have their profes- 
sional secrets as well as physicians. But it will be very easy tor 
you to know it, now that 1 have told you of the case, and you ap- 
prove our method of action. You have only to be present when 
the accused receives the notihcation.” 

” When will that be?” 

” The letter is all ready. And as he has no suspicion ot what is 
in store for him, 1 think that he will not fail to come to-night, and 
sit down as usual at the baccarat table. Perhaps he is there already. 
1 am going to see, for we must not put olf this matter. In such 
cases, any delay is to be avoided. Be present at the game, it it 
amuses you; bet even, if you feel in the mood, but do not think of 
being banker, for you would have to do with a cheat, and we shall 
wait, to strike the great blow, until he begins his trickery. Now, 
he is clever and you would see nothing, but we, who know who he 
is, are going to watch and we shall act at the proper moment. An 
revoir. Not a word, you understand.” 

‘ ‘ Of course, i shall keep my eyes open, but 1 shall say noth- 
ing.” 

M. de Saint-Senier w'alked away, leaving Courtenay perplexed 
enough. He wanted very much to find out if a suspicion which 


184 


THE COISISEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


had come to liim was well founded, but he wanted still more to talk; 
to his friend Coulanges, and he feared that he would miss him. Bac- 
carat was played in an out-of-the-way room, and he feared that the 
doctor would not think of coming there perhaps. “ Half-past 
twelve!*' he thought. “ Where can the fellow be? Eating, proba- 
bly, in some restaurant. If he had felt sleepy he would have come 
here first, and left word for me not to wait for him. Kow, no one 
has seen him; so he may come anytime and lam obliged to remain. 

1 may as w^ell pass the time in watching the scene that is to take 
place in the baccarat room " 

Courtenay rang and told the servant who came to tell Dr. Cou- 
langes, when he arrived, where he was, and that he wished to speak 
to him at once. 

Easy on this score, George directed his steps toward the room 
where the lovers of chance were assembled. 

The game was in full progress, and it was almost an event that 
the players wore so numerous, for baccarat had languished for some 
time. 

The bankers had been so lucky, that they had no longer found 
many adversaries; but, on this particular evening, without know- 
ing why, the foimer players had come to try and win back (heir 
money. 

All varieties of superstitions weie represented about the green 
cloth. There were men who believed in the iofluence of a little pig 
worn as a charm ; others held in their mouths an extinguished cigar,, 
which they did not dare to light for fear of spoiling their luck. 
Some had wandered for a long time about the boulevards, in the 
hope of meeting a hunchback, and touching his hump. 

All these faces were familiar to Courtenay, and one alone attract- 
ed his attention — that of M. Corleou, who was operating at the end 
of the table, and with success; for he had before him large piles of 
counters of twenty and one hundred francs, easily recognizable by 
their form and color. 

The banker was a capitalist, celebrated for his large and constant 
winnings, who inspired small players with a salutary terror. Few 
of them would enter the game when he dealt the cards, and as he 
was detested, because of his persistent luck, many evil things were 
said about him. 

Courtenay, who had heard some of these remarks after games 
which had been disastrous to the bettors, wondered if this was the 
gentleman the two directors were going discreetly to expel. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL, 


185 


To nipjbt, however, this great conqueror had lost much money, 
bat he did not seem particularly disturbed by it. 

M. de Sainl-Senier stood behind the seats of the players, and did 
not appear to observe one more than another. 

”1 am afraid that^ the letter will not be delivered to-night,” 
thought Courtenay, who had hoped for a moment that the culprit 
would prove to be M. Corleon. 

The last deal was lost by the banker, amd it was a heavy loss; for 
it took away at least a quarter of the profits acquired since the be- 
ginning of the game. 

The loser paid it witliout any complaint. 

Courtenay, who was attentively observing the game, saw M. Cor- 
leou carelessly rake in a large sum. This fortunate player had ad- 
vanced a pile of chips without counting them. With a movement 
of his arm, he knocked them down, saying: “ 1 don’t know how 
uauch there is there;” and it was found that there were four chips 
of a hundred francs and twtlve of twenty, in all thirty- two louis, 
which he received in gold and notes. 

All this was perfectly regular on both sides, and Courtenay made 
up his mind that neither of these gentlemen was the culprit; he al- 
most reproached himself for having suspected tliem. 

The banker made no movement to rise. He had won enough to 
bear a run of ill-luck, and lie intended to recover himself by contin- 
uing to deal. 

They gathered up the cards which, after each deal, trad been cast 
into a sort of bag sunk in the middle of the immense long table, and, 
during this forced pause the players conversed among themselves. 
Of course, they did not speak of politics, or literature, or women, 
for card-players never have any other subject of conversation than 
the game. They discussed gravely the eternal question of the tirage 
d cinq, approved by the school of Bordeaux, the birthplace of bac- 
carat; and blamed by the school of Paris, whose opinion has pre- 
vailed in modern times. One player demonstrated to his neighbor 
that the banker was right to stop at three, when he has given nine 
to each of the two sides. The unlucky pla 3 ^ers exchanged bitter 
words in regard to the caprices of the deal, and growled impreca- 
tions against the persistent luck of the capitalist, who had won 
their money this evening, as always. 

In the midst of the general hub- bub, M. Corleon preserved his 
<?oolness, and even his gayety, for he joked pleasantly with any one 
who cared to talk to him. It is true that he was the only player 
who had been able to win. 


186 


THE CO^^SEQUE^nCES OE A DUEL. 


The Count de Saint-Seuier had withdrawn a little, to speak to M> 
Becherel, his colleague in executing the wishes of the directory. 

Courtenay concluded that the culprit was not present, -and he 
commenced to worry himselt again over the unpunctual doctor. 
Still, he remained in the room, having no better way ot killing time 
than to watch the game. Tlie banker, having shuffled the cards, 
asked him to cut them, and he did not refuse to render him this 
service, which is usually asked of people who are supposed to bring 
good luck. Courtenay vras one of these, and the bettors cursed 
him in their hearts, for at the first deal the banker announced nine. 

. There was a general raking in of the bets, and the chips piled up 
by M. Corleon w’^ere also about to swell the banker’s winnings, but 
Corleon, wfflo had manipulated them before the cards were dealt, an- 
nounced fifteen louis, and drew three one hundred-franc notes from 
his pocket, saying: 

“ 1 prefer to pay in paper. It is a superstition of mine.^’ 

And as all present were more or less superstitious, no one was as- 
tonished at this declaration. 

M. Corleon possessed, moreover, the prudence of the serpent; 
for, after this breach in his capital, he remained for several deals 
without playing. 

It was w^ell that he did so, for not one ot the bettors won. There 
was a formidable run of luck against them, and they were all the 
moie enraged at Courtenay, who had cut, but did not play. They 
cast angry glances at him, but the banker gave him a pleasant smile, 
George determined to show them that he did not share their ridcu- 
lous ideas, and, taking out a thousand- franc bill, he cast it upon the 
right side of the table. 

At this action the victor made a grimace, the vanquished looked 
up, an(i M. Corleon erected a new pile of chips upon the d.ehris ot 
the one he had overturned, after paying with money; he took great 
care to build it in the form of a pyramid, placing the larger chips at 
the bottom and the smaller ones at the top. ^ 

On the side where Courtenay and Corleon had bet, the hand w^as 
held by a young man who had recently come to Paris, the one who 
had been beaten the evening before at billiards. , 

He was absolutely lacking in coolness; and when be bad glanced 
over his hand, and the banker asked him if he would have any 
cards, he replied, “ Yes,” although his hand counted six. 

jVl. Corleon could willingly have strangled liim, but be restrained 
bis anger, and even forced himself to smile. The others had seeu. 
the error, and their faces grew long. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


187 


The banker saw that his adversary had made a mistake, and he 
determined to profit by it. 

The hand on the left stood at ei^^ht, but there were fewer bets on 
that than on the other. The thing was to beat the hand on the right, 
and the banker felt no uneasiness, as he held seven. 

Unfortunately for him, he dealt a three, which gave the young 
man the triumphant point of seven, and the joy of the poor fellow 
was such that he nearly upset the table. 

There was an explosion of reproaches against the idiot who thus 
exposed his hand. 

The banker drew a card, which was also a three. 

“Baccarat!” he exclaimed, throwing down his cards 

Then everything was changed. They praised the young man 
whom they had blamed; he had won when a more skillful player 
would certainly have lost by standing at six. 

The capitalist, beaten by this error, had nothing to do but to 
pay, and he proceeded to do so with very good grace. 

Courtenay pocketed a thousand francs, which he had scarcely ex- 
pected, and when itcarre M. Corleon’s turn, the banker, who had 
Temembered the amount of the last bet, said: 

“ Fifteen louis, is it not?” 

“Pardon me,” answered Corleon; “1 think that it is more. 1 
will count my pile.” 

He did so, and found that the chips represented exactly forty-five 
louis. - 

The banker, this time also, paid without making any objection. 

Courtenay was no longer thinking of the lucky player who lost 
the little bets and w^on the big ones. He did not even notice that 
M. de baint-Senier had quitted the room, leaving his colleague on 
guard near the green table. The bank was very much reduced, but 
it was not broheu, and the game continued, 

George, satisfied with having given a lesson to the gentlemen who 
accused him of bringing them ill luck, did not make another bet. 

M. Corleon had ceased also and appeared very much absorbed in 
the construction of a new pile of chips, which he intended to push 
forward, when the inspiration should come to him to try his luck. 

At this moment, Courtenay, who was at a little distance from the 
table, saw a servant of the club enter the room, bearing a silver 
salver, on which was placed a large square letter. 

“ Ah!” he thought, “ that servant, without knowing it, must be 
the executor of the will of the directory. Whom can the letter be 
destined tor?” 


188 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


Ihe liveried messenger seemed to be seeking, among the players,, 
the one to whom the sealed envelope was directed. The banker 
was about to deal the cards and M. Coileon had already pushed for- 
ward his pile, when the servant approached him and very respect- 
fully presented the saWer. 

“ Look !” said the facetious speculator, “ Corleon receiving a love- 
letter in the very midst of a game of baccarat.’* 

The Italian forced a smile as he opened the letter. 

“ My dear fellow,” continued the incorrigible joker, “ you should 
really forbid the ladies to disturb you while you are at play. There 
is a time for everything.” 

Courtenay was w^atching with all his eyes and he was repaid tor- 
his pains. Corleon had scarcely unfolded the sheet contained in 
the envelope, when his face changedo 

“ You turn pale, my lord!” cried the speculator, imitating the 
voice of a melodramatic actor. ‘‘ 1 will make a bet that your sweet- 
heart has deserted you.” 

” Silence!” growled a nervous player. “ 1 can’t hear myself 
think.” 

“ Well, monsieur, do you play or do you not?” asked the banker. 

‘‘ No, not this time,’* muttered Corleon, drawning back his chips. 

“It is certainly he,” thought Courtenay. “Monsieur de Pon- 
taiimur is the friend of a sharper. Let us see what he is going ta 
do.” 

Corleon did nothing. He abstained from betting and he did nofe 
leave his place. 

At this moment a hand was placed upon Courtenay’s shoulder, 
and he turned to find himself face to face with the doctor. 

“Ah! at last!” he cried. “1 have been tvaiting for you more 
than two hours. Where the devil have you been?” 

“ Not so loud,” murmured Coulanges. “ 1 will explain to you 
why 1 am late, but it is better that no one should hear what 1 have to 
tell y(»u. Come with me into the little room near by; there is no 
one there now, and we can talk at our ease.” 

“ Very willingly, in a few minutes.” 

“ Are 3 mu playing?” 

“No, but 1 want to see the end of a scene, the beginning of 
which 1 have just witnessed. Let us draw away a little, and 1 will 
tell you what has taken place.” 

Coulanges followed George into the recess of a window, where 
the players could not hear them. 

The gay doctor did not seem the same as usuOil; he was pale, his 


THE CONSEQUEInTCES OF A DUEL. 


189 


! 


j eyes did not spaikle wiili mirth, and his lips did not wear that 
Kabelaisian smile which becarr.e him so well. He had the worn-out 
look of a man who has passed the night in bad company and wbo^ 
I has left all his money upon the green table of a gambling-hell. 

“What is the matter with you, old fellow?’' asKed Courtenay. 
“ You don’t look well.” 

“ I am tired,” answ^ered Coulanges, sadl3^ 

“ Have you been drinking a little loo much?” 

“No, no, and wdien you know where 1 come from, you will have 
no desire to jest, 1 assure you.” 

“ At last, he has decided to go,” muttered George, who was not 
listening very attentively to Coulanges’ words. 

“ Of whom are you speaking?” 

“ Of a fellow whom you know well. Look over there, at the end 
of the table.” 

“ Corleon? Yes, he is pocketing his money and his chips. He 
has won, doubtless, and he is g^ ing away. Does that surprise you?” 

“ He is going, because he has been ordered to do so. He has re- 
ceived a letter telling him that his cheating has been discovered and 
that he must cease to play, under penalty of being publicly ex- 
pelled.” 

“ Did you see him cheat?” 

“ Yes. 1 must say, however, that if 1 had not been told about 
it, 1 should not have discovered the process he em.ploys. It is as 
simple as possible. He adds to his pile when he wins an^- takes 
away from it when he loses. This has been reported to the direct- 
ory and he has been caught in the act.” 

“ It is not the first time he has cheated,” said Coulanges, in aa 
undertone. 

“ Well, he is dishonored this time and 1 have not lost my even- 
ing, since 1 have been present at his execution. It was accomplished 
without noise, but it will soon be known to everybody. It will, 
serve as a preliminary to beginning a campaign against Pontau- 
mur. Corleon is his other self. 1 will prove it.” 

“ 1 also will prove it,” murmured the doctor. 

“ And 1 am also sure that this evening they have plotted some- 
thing against me. Madame Brehal must have told you that 1 was 
summoned by my notary on important business. I went in all haste 
to the Hue de Babylon and 1 learned there that my notary had not 
written me. The letter was forged. 1 don’t doubt but that it was 
the work of one of those two knaves. But what their purpose was, t 
can not imagine.” 


190 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


“1 know what it was/’ 

“Aon do? Tell me at once.” 

‘‘ Not here, my friend. 1 have serious things to talk to you about 
and a sad piece of news to tell you. So, it there is nothing to keep 
you here, follow me.” 

They lett the room, and no one paid any more attention to their 
departure than they had to Corleon’s disappearance, for the game 
had been begun again. 

The doctor led his friend into the little room, where they had 
heard, two days before, the architect Capdenac describe the marvels 
of Madame Brehal’s park. The place was well chosen for conver- 
sation, tor, at this hour, they could count on not being disturbed. 

” W ell?” asked Courtenay, “ what is your news?” 

‘‘An accident has happened to Madame Brehal,” said Coulanges, 
.abruptly. 

” My God! but—nothing serious, i hope?” 

‘‘ Her life is not in dan^rer, but—” 

‘‘ Go on! You are making me suffer tortures with your hesita- 
tion.” 

” The truth is, my friend, that the horse attached to her coupe 
ran away; the carriage Was overturned and Madame Brehal has 
broken both her legs.” 

‘‘ Broken both her legs! This is frighttul, and I—” 

” The fractures are simple, very fortunately, and there is no com- 
plication to be feared. A cure is certain and there will remain no 
trace of the accident, but it will take a long time. Madame Brehal 
had just left the opera when the misfortune occurred.” 

“ TV ere you there/’ 

‘‘No, but 1 learned of it very quickly, for 1 was not far away.” 

” And you did not come to tell me of it till now!” 

” My dear fellow, 1 had lirst to take care of the injured lady and 
to accompany her home. The transportation upon a litter lasted at 
least an hour.’' 

‘‘ Upon a litter!” repeated George. 

‘‘ Yes, that is the best way in such a case; in tact, the only one. 
1 had also to send for the first surgeon in Paris, for 1 did not wish 
to trust to my own skill alone, and the surgeon set the broken limbs 
much better than I could have done it. 1 wanted also to know' his 
opinion before seeing you. In short, I have just come from the 
Avenue de Tilliers, and, 1 assure you, 1 have not lost a minute. 
Besides, 1 do not regret having waited, for now I can completely 


191 


THE COKSEQUEIS’CES OF A DUEL. 

reassure you, Madame Brehal is doing as well as possible, and the 
surgeon does not fear any dangerous consequences.” 

” He may be mistaken. Let us go! 1 wish to see her.” 

understand your impatience, my dear George, but you must 
wait until to-morrow. Madame Brehal needs repose and your visit 
would excite her. She asked me to tell you that she w’ould receive 
3 ^ou to-morrow morning and that she would be very happj' to see 
you. She thinks only of you in the midst of her sufferings.” 

” She suffers, then?” 

Yes, but she has extraordinary courage. She does not allow a 
complaint to escape from her, and, when 1 arrived, a few minutes 
after the accident, i found her calmer than you are at this moment.” 

” Bui how w’as it that the horse ran away? The coachman is a 
good one and he has been in the habit of driving Max.” 

” It was not his fault. He could not foresee nor prevent an at- 
tempt at a crime.” 

” What do 3 on mean?” 

“ My dear fellow, prepare yourself to hear very surprising things.. 
Do you remember that, before 3 "our departure from the box, 1 went 
to see it Madame Brehal’s coupe had arrived?” 

” Perf( ctly.” 

” Weil, whom do you suppose 1 surprised in the Rue Gluck 
talking to a man in a blouse and a cap? Monsieur de Pontaumur, 
in person. He did not see me; he left the individual after giving 
him his instructions and jumped into a cab which was passing. T 
hoped to catch his agent who was coming toward me, but the mo- 
ment he caught sight of me, he turned* and lan away.” ' 

‘‘He knew you, then.” 

“It is more than probable, but 1 did not succeed in seeing his 
face.” 

” And do you suppose that Pontaumur ordered this man to excile 
the horse, so that he would run away?” 

‘‘ 1 am sure of it, and this is why: tliree qnarters of an hour after- 
ward as Madame Brehal and myself arrived at the place where her 
carriage was waiting, 1 discovered the same fellow hiding in a door- 
way.” 

‘‘ But you were there to defend Madame Brehal!” 

‘‘ 1 had no chance to defend her, for he only attacked the horse. 
When she had entered the coupe and while I was closing the door, 
he suddenly darted out and touched the dark bay, who immediate- 
ly started off on the run. 1 ran alter the rascal and 1 should have 
caught him perhaps, if he had not jumped into another coupe^ 


192 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


which was waiting for him in the Sue Mogador, a coupe which I 
had already encountered in the Champs-Elysees, and which 1 very 
strongly suspect belongs to Monsieur de Pontaumur.” 

There is no doubt of it, and the complicity of the two scoundrels 
is evident. But w'ho can the agent be? Corleon?*’ 

“ Ko. It was not his build or height. 1 ana rather inclined to 
think that it was simply some street boy whom Pontaumur paid to 
do his villainous work. If so, we shall not find him again. The 
coachman declares, however, that he would recognize him because 
he lashed him across the face with his whip.” 

“ 1 shall not bother myself about the agent. Pon^taumur is the 
man 1 want.” 

” And what are you going to say to him?” 

” I don’t know yet. Tiie story you relate is so extraordinary, 
that 1 wonder if you are not- mistaken.” 

‘ Both Madame Brehal and the coachman saw the man jump at 
the horse ” 

‘‘Well, but the horse is very shy, he might have run away by 
himself, if you had only shut the door too hard.” 

**■ On the contrary, 1 closed it very gently. 1 had been warned 
that he was apt to run away.” 

” But what dill the knave do? Did he strike Max, or prick him, 
or what?” 

” This is what the coachman picked up at the place where the 
horse fell,” said the doctor, presenting to George a round object, 
which he held between his thumb and forefinger. 

” A bullet!” exclaimed Courtenay. What does that mean?” 

” It means that the man in the blouse placed thnt buil t in the 
horse’s ear.” And as George did not seem to understand, Couianges 
cmintinued; ” You know, a horse always runs away, if any one 
puls in his ear a hard object, which he can not get rid ofi, a little 
pebble for example, or better still a leaden bullet. Th re is als: the 
bit of burning slow-match, a surer means still, but the fellow did n. t 
think of that, and besides, the bullet w'as sulhcient, for it drcve 
Max absolutely crazy.” 

” But this is a regular attempt at murder!” cried Georg:. 

‘‘ Most certainly, for the villains expected that Madame Brehal 
would be killed, and it is a miracle tha: she escaped ss aV did. 
They desired only her death and they addressed a forged lette:* to 
draw you away, because they feared that Madame Brehal would 
t;ake you in her carriage.” 


THE COKSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL, 


193 


‘‘Then, if 1 am to believe you, they vvish to preserve my lifel 
That is absurd. Madame Brehal’s enemies are also my enemies F' 

“ That may be, and yet 1 am certain of what 1 say. They 
wanted to save you.” 

“ Why? For what purpose?” 

“Ah! Now you have me! 1 am as ignorant as you, and this 
mystery is connected with another which has occupied my thoughts 
for nearly a month.” 

” Do you mean since Maurice Saulieu’s death?” 

” Precisely.” 

“But what connection can you see between the duel in which 
our friend was killed and this accident which might have cost Ma- 
dame Brehal her life?” 

I'he doctor hesitated an instant, but he felt that it was impossible 
to keep any longer the secrets which weighed upon him, and he 
decided to speak. 

“ My dear George,” he said, “the time has come to make my 
confession to you. Know, then, that the duel in which Saulieu 
perished was an unfair one. Know that, immediately after this 
duel, 1 became almost certain Saulieu could not have touched his 
adversary because the pistol lie used was not loaded.” 

“ What! It was loaded before your eyes.” 

“ Yes, by that gentleman who cheats at baccarat, and who cheated 
that day at a much more serious game, for he loaded Saulieu's 
pistol with a wooden ball, entirely inoftensive at thirty paces.” 

“ And you let him do it?” 

“ 1 did not perceive anything. The scoundrel is very adroit with 
his hands; you cm see that by the way he handles his chips. He 
juggled in the same way with the leaden bullet 1 gave him, and 
substituted for it another, which I picked up on the duel ground 
while you were gone to seek the men at the inn, and which 1 will 
show you some time, for 1 have carefully preserved it.” 

“ Then, they assassinated Maurice!” 

“ Exactly. And 1 have not the least doubt that it was premedi- 
tated, for I discovered, afterward, that the pistols were marked. If 
they had drawn them by lot, as Corleon proposed, Pontaumur could 
have recognized, by the touch, the one he must choose. I will show 
you the screw in the butt of one of the weapons.” 

“ You knew all this and you liave not denounced these wretches!” 

“ 1 was wrong, but I can plead extenuating circumstances. In 
the first place, the proofs I possessed were not such as are easily ac- 
cepted in a court of law. 1 should have had much difficulty in con- 
7 


194 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


vincing a magistrate by the exhibition of a little wooden ball, which 
no one saw me pick up in the redoubt of Gennevilliers. Who knows 
if 1 would not have been suspected of having manufactuied it? Be- 
lieve me, my friend, 1 would have reached no result, and we, you 
and 1, would have found ourselves implicated in a bad matter. 
Public opinion oft^n confounds the innocent and the guilty. 1 
ccknowledge that this last consideration decided me to keep silenf 

“You should at least have informed me and asked my advice,’" 
said Courtenay, angrily. 

“ If you will take the trouble to reflect,” replied the doctor, per- 
fectly unmoved, “ you will see that 1 was right to say nothing to 
you. You were not cool. The friendship which you felt for Saulieu 
would have pushed you to extremities, and perhaps w^e should never 
have penetrated the mystery which enveloped this abominable 
crime. 1 wished to go to the bottom of things, to discover the 
motiv^ of the assassins. For three weeks 1 have sought it silently, 
and 1 have found it at last this evening.” 

“The motive! Why, it was Pontaum.ur's cowardice. He had 
been struck; he was obliged to flght and he wished to fight without 
risk. ’ ’ 

“ Perhaps. But that was not the only motive. Things have 
happened which cast a strange light upon Monsieur de Pontaumur’s 
conduct.” 

“ Yes, he has tried to ruin Madame Brehal’s reputation and even 
to kill her, if it was indeed he you saw in ihe neighborhood of the 
opera house, but these new infamies do not explain the first.” 

“1 will try to prove to you that the same motive impelled Pon- 
taumur to get rid of Baulieu first and then of Madame Brehal. 1 
leave out of the question Corleon, who must be under the orders 
and in the pay of Pontaumur, and who only played a subordinate 
part in the two affairs.” 

“ That is probable. But what was Pontaumur’s motive?” 

“ His interests are mixed up with that of another person, a 
woman.” 

“ 1 begin to see what you mean, but—” 

“ Y^ou have not forgotten the conversation we had, at your house 
this very day, in regard to the chiffonier purchased by Delphine at 
the Hotel des "Ventes, and which certainly contained Maurice 
Saulieu's will. Well, after leaving you, I met Delphine, and after va- 
rious incidents which it is useless to relate to you, I acquired the cer- 
tainty that the will was stolen from her house by Monsieur de Pon- 
taumur, who had passed himself off as a rich Spaniard; he even 


THE CONSEQUEITCES OF A DUEL. 


195 


gave twenty-five louis to the little fool who left him atone in the 
salon where the chiftonier was. Do you think that he would have 
made this sacrifice and committed such imprudences if your triend’s 
heiress were indifterent to him?’' 

“ ]No. 1 no longer doubt that he has relations with her, the nat- 
ure i)f which 1 do not understand. I even admit, if you wish, that 
she is or has been his mistress. It would be monstrous, but it is 
possible. It would explain that Monsieur da Pontaumur wished to 
enrich Mademoiselle Mezenc. It would not explain Maurice’s as- 
sassination or the attempt against Madame Brehal.” 

“ There is a supposition which, explains all, if it is well-founded 
— a supposition which 1 have already submitted to you and which 
did not strike you as very probable. Suppose that Mademoiselle 
Mezenc loves you, or, what comes to the same thing, as far as my 
argument goes, that she wishes to marry you.” 

” That idea has occurred to me more than onco, but 1 have never 
harbored it.” 

” Accept it, and you will see that everything is clear. Mademoi- 
selle Mezenc cast her ej^e upon you; but you did not notice her, and 
poor Saulieu asked her hand in marriag’e. She accepted him, and 
he made his will. She knew that he had left her all his fortune. 
This was the moment Monsieur de Pontaumur chose to spread 
abroad, in regard lojier, reports which came to Saulieu’s ears. 
Saiilieu struck him. They fought and Saulieu was Killed, you 
know how. Here was Mad<*moiselle Mezenc an heiress and free to 
marry whomever she wishes, and it is you she wishes.” 

“ It this were true!” 

” Let us see what follows. She learned from your mouth that. ^ 
the will had disappeared ; but Maurice had told her where it -wm. 
She set Monsieur de Pontaumur on the track of it foi she had not 
given up benefiting by it. It would help to console her, it her great 
project failed, and if it succeeded, she would have in your eyes the 
merit of disinterestedness, for she would then refuse this fortune, 
which she would no longer need when she was your wife.” 

” Yes, your reasoning is good,” murmured George, almost con- 
vinced by the doctor’s arguments. 

” The one thing to be done was to conquer j'ou,” continued Cou- 
langes, imperturbably. ” The enterprise was all the more difficult, 
as she could scarcely go into society as in the past, and as you were 
not intimate at her house. But Madame Brehal, with the innocent 
imprudence of an honest woman, oflered her the opportunity she 
needed. She gladly accepted the chance to go and paint bad pictures 


196 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

in the marble pavilion, where she hoped that you would often come. 
It was then that Monsieur de Ponlaumur emphasized his perform- 
ances commenced some time before. It was necessary to ruin the 
leputation of Madame Brehal, who might be a rival. Ponlaumur 
procured a key to the inclosure. He enters it at night, arranging so 
as to be seen, and he mounts the hillock which overlooks Madame 
Brehal’s domain, remaining there in contemplation for hours at a 
time.’’ 

“ 1 remember now that the porter who guards the entrance in the 
Rue de Courceiles was recommended by Madame Mezenc.” 

“ He is therefore devoted to Mademoiselle Mezenc. But let us go 
on to the end. The day before yesterday, after the breakfast at 
which 1 was present, Madame Brehal announced to Mademoiselle 
Mezenc that your marriage was decided. All was lost for the ambi 
tious person who had made up her mind to marry you. Desperate 
measures were necessary to prevent the ruin of her plans, and Mon- 
sieur de Ponlaumur immediately conceived an infernal project, 
and hired a rascal to execute it. He learned that Madame Brehal 
was going to the opera; he sent his coupe to wait near by, for the 
sole purpose of aiding his infamous agent to escape, and he himself 
entered the orchestra. He saw you in tne box, and as he did not 
wish you to be a victim also of the accident he was preparing, he 
went out to write, or have written, the letter which should draw j^ou 
aw^y. He did not care wether or uo 1 entered the carriage with 
Madame Brehal, for it mattered little it 1 were killed with her, while 
the life of Mademoiselle Mezenc’s future husband was precious. 
Ihe false bullet of the duel perhaps suggested to him placing the 
leaden ball in the horse’s ear. You know the rest. And now, my 
dear friend, that you have heard my deductions, draw your own 
conclusions.” 

” 1 conclude,” cried Geoi’ge excitedly, ” that Ponlaumur and his 
accomplices are scoundrels who must be exterminated. But 1 still 
dislike co believe that Mademoiselle Mezenc was in the plot. If this 
man is her lover, he may have acted without consulting her.” 

“As regards the recovery of the will and the attempt against 
Madame Brehal, it is impossible. She alone knew that the will was 
hidden in one of the feet of the chiffonier book-case and that Ma- 
dame Brehal was going to marry you.” 

” She might have given him information, but she took no active 
part in the affair of the runaway horse, and 1 will never believe that 
she was concerned in the assassination of Imr jiance,‘' 


THE OOKSEQUEi^CES OF A DUEL. 19T 

“ It would be horrible, but, if you were on a jury, what would 
you do?’" 

“ 1 don’t know yet, but 1 swear to you that 1 will arenge IVJau- 
rice and 1 will not stop at conjectures. To condemn her 1 rcust be 
C 3 rtain. To-moirow 1 also will begin an investigation; but this 
evening, not a woid more my friend, or you will drive me mad I 
Let us go!” 


CHAPTER XL 

In a chamber hung with pale blue silk, upon a bed raised upon a 
dai's, lay Mme. Brehal, enveloped in a peignoir of white satin. Her 
blonde head was resting upon a pile of pillows and looked as if 
floating in a sea of lace. Her delicate hands played with a teathei 
Ian, her lips were parted in a smile, and one would have been 
tempted to believe hat she had only lain down to rest after returning 
frona ball. But it would have been very quickly perceived that, 
if the upper part of her body was free in its movements, her lower 
limbs were absolutely motionless. The peignoir, sustained by an 
ingenious apparatus, formed a sort of aych above her limbs, which 
could not bear the least contact, and fell in folds about her feet. 

On on'^ side of the bed George was seated upon an ottoman, and 
on the other, near the head of the invalid, Dr. Coulanges was stand- 
ing. 

Mnce. Brehal received her lover and her physician as the great 
ladies ot the Hotel Ramboaillet received in olden times their adorers^ 

The lover was melancholy, but the doctor had not at all a profes^ 
sional air, and the lady was very gay. 

There was none of the paraph e’^n alia ot Jlhe sick room in sight, 
but there were flowers everywhere; and through the open windows 
came the song ot birds. 

** 1 siiGuld never have believed that 1 would so soon grow accus- 
tomed to lying still,” said Mme. Brehal, laughingly. “ 1 have never 
been sick, but it seems to me as if 1 had been like this all my life.” 

” 1 admire your courage,” murmured Courtenay. 

“ Oh! 1 don’t deserve much credit for being resigned. Our 
good doctor promises to cure me, and you are here near me. What 
more could 1 want? Do you think that I regret not being able ta 
pay visits or to ride in the Bois? Those are amusements which are 
not worth the pleasant talks with those one loves, and 1 don’t ex- 
pect that you will abandon me.” 

‘‘1 abandoned you altogether too much yesterday; if you knew 


198 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


what anguish 1 suffered last night! 1 longed to see you, and Cou> 
lanires told me that you would not receive me until noon to-day.” 

“ Excuse a woman’s coquetry, 1 wished to prepare my sur» 
roundings, and modern surgery has charming inventions. If you 
Uid not know that that wietclied Max had near!}" Rilled me you 
would not suspect that both my legs were plastered with dextrine 
and inclosed in wooden spdnts. I can hope, therefore, that you do 
not find me too ugly. Yesterday, after the accident, 1 can assure 
-you I was horrible.” 

, ‘‘1 protest,” exclaimed Coulanges. ‘‘ Seated upon a cushion, be- 
fore your broken carriage, in the midst of those frightened people, 
you had the bearing and beauty of a queen.” 

‘‘ A queen whose chariot had been overturned and who was not 
escorted by the gentlemen of her court. Instead of guards, there 
were about me only policemen; and 1 was carried home on a hos- 
pital litter.” 

” Aou were as calm as you are now, you were superb.” 

” i confess that 1 was frightened when Max took the bit between 
his teeth. 1 knew what he was capable of, and 1 felt that 1 was 
lost beyond redemption. This only lasted three minutes and 3’et 1 
had time to think of a thousand things, the past, the present, and 
the future; one sees triple at such moments. 1 saw again the alley 
where George told me he loved me; 1 wondered what he would do 
when 1 was dead, and what reconciled me to dying was the thought 
that he was safe; 1 blessed the notary who had summoned him, for 
if George had remained at the opera he would have entered my 
coupe, and perished with me; 1 remembered that he had told me 
that he had come on foot, and 1 had intended to propose to take 
him home. At the point we then were 1 might well have permitted 
myself that pleasure.” 

” At the point we shall alwaj^s be,” corrected Couitenay. 

” Not at all, my friend,” said Mme. Brehal, with a shade Df sad- 
ness. ” My sentiments have not changed, and 1 do not doubt the 
constancy cf yours, but we can not be married, now, in a few days.” 

” That is only a delay.” 

” A delay to which must be added uncertainty.” 

” AY hat do you mean?” 

” That my happiness depends on the success of my cure. It is 
frightfully prosaic, but it is the truth.” 

” Reall}^, Gabrielle, 1 do not understand you.” 

” Then 1 will explain myself more clearly. 1 have entire confi- 
dence in the predictions of our friend here. 1 hope that his care 


THE COiTSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


199 ^ 


and skill will make me again what 1 was when you loved me; but, 
if he is mistaken, if science is powerless to return to me what 1 have 
lost, the use of my limbs' you know well that 1 would give you back 
your word.’" 

“ Do you think that 1 would take it back?’’ 

“ !No, my dear George, but I would refuse the sacrifice. You 
could not marry a cripple.” 

“Oh! madaroe,” exclaimed Coulanges, “you have very little 
faith. If only my predictions were in question, 1 should say noth- 
ing. But you doubt the illustrious surgeon, wno answers for your 
complete cure. That is impious.” 

“ My dear doctor, I am very believing, but we must count also- 
upon the unexpected, and it George wishes to please me he will 
speak no mi re of a project which is as dear to me as to himself, 
and which 1 have a firm hope will be realized. Let us keep this 
hope in our hearts, and be prepared to bear our unhappiness, if it is 
Heaven’s will that it should come.” 

“ You must allow me to see you every day,” said George: “ on 
that condition, I promise not to say a word more of our marriage. 
As 1 am certain that we shall be married silence will cost me little.” 

“ Agreed!” exclaimed Mme. Brehal, holding out her hand. “ Not 
only do 1 allow you to come as often as you like, but 1 shall be pro- 
foundly grateful to you for remaining faithful to me and brighten- 
ing my solitude, yes, my solitude, for 1 have given orders to admit 
no one. I wish people to believe me very sick, and those who are 
indifferent will forget. You will see that soon the world will not 
think of us, and 1 want to conceal my happiness from curious eyes. 
Now, to pass to a pleasanter subject. I must tell you, my dear doc- 
tor, what 1 was thinking of, when tbej^ were setting my poor legs. 
You will smile, but 1 am only a woman. 1 was thinking of a ball 
where I waltzed with George, and 1 said to myself that that waltz 
would be perhaps the last, and 1 wept a little; you did not see it, 
but 1 did.” 

George look the hand which \\\& fiancee offered him and kissed it. 
He was so touched that the tears also came into his eyes. 

“ I will weep no more, 1 promise you,” she continued, “ but stilt 
1 have a great sorrow, and that, my friend, you can remove. 
Mademoiselle Mezenc, as 1 told you last evening at the opera, seems 
to be angry with me. 1 don’t know whether 1 have unintentionally 
hurt her feelings, but 1 am sure that she would hasten to me if slus^ 
knew what had happened. Oh! 1 guess what you are going to an- 
swer, but 1 beg you to say nothing. 1 may be mistaken as to Mail- 


^00 


THE COi^rSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


anne’s real sentiments and judge her too favorably, but leave me my 
illusions, and consent to go forme, and tell hero! the accident which 
condemns me to remain at home/’ 

It seems to me that it would be sufficient to write,” answered 
iJourtenay, coldly. 

“ Ko. 1 desire you to see her. Tell her that 1 ask her to come, 
and if she refuses, ask her what grievance she has against me. 1 
hope that she has none, but if she has one, 1 want to know what it 
is; and 1 do not want any other embassador than you. It is an in- 
valid s caprice, and you must excuse it.” 

George and the doctor exchanged a look. The same idea had 
come to both of them, that now was the time to tell Mme. Brehal the 
facts of which she had not the slightest suspicion. Coulanges bad 
taken good care not to explain to her the cause of the accident. It 
was not a physician’s duty to afflict a patient by revealing to her 
that an attempt had been made to kill her. To George alone be- 
longed the task of expressing the reasons of bis repugnance to act 
as a go-between between Mile. Mezenc and the charming woman he 
was to marry; he alone could permit himself to declare why he did 
not like the former fiancee ot Maurice Saulieu, assassinated in a cow- 
ardly manner by M. de Pontaumur and his acol 3 de Corleon. 

But George had had time to reflect, since he had received the doc- 
tor’s confession, and if he had resolved to open an investigation 
himself he had also resolved to be silent until he hail acquired the 
certainty that Mile. Mezenc was guilty of complicity in the infa- 
mous plots which had cost Maurice Saulieu his life and which had 
nearly cost Mine. Brehal hers. 

What ivas the use of speaking of the wooden and the leaden balls, 
if he should not speak of the false letter from the notary? He had 
this letter with him, and he might have shown it to Mme. Biehal, 
who would perhaps recognize the handwriting. But once started 
he would have fatally gone further than he wished. Mme. Brehal 
would have asked him questions, which he would have been obliged 
to answer, and the lime was not come to accuse the girl of being the 
accomplice, voluntary or involuntary, of tw'o scoundrels. 

” I will do all you command me/’ he said, forcing a smile; ” 1 
even regret that you do not put my obedience to a more difficult 
proof.” 

“Take care I 1 might take you at your word,” replied Mme. 
Brehal, gayly, “ but 1 will not abuse my authority. Only, since 
you are willing to take my message, be even kinder and do so at 


THE CONSEQUENCES OE A DUEL. 


201 


once. If you deter going you will risk missing Marianne^ while at 
this hour you are sure to find her at home.” 

“ Very well; but, since you send me away, 1 shall take Ooulanges 
wilh me.” 

” Monsieur Coulanges will return and you also. 1 expect that 
before evening you will bring me Marianne’s answer, and my phy- 
sician in ordinary owes me two visits a day. 1 resign myself easily, 
therefore, to letting you both go.” 

” If 1 had foreseen that you were going to dismiss us so quickly 
1 don’t think that 1 should have promised anything,” said Courte- 
nay, laughing; “ but 1 have given my promise, audl will keep it.” 

” 1 also keep my promises, if Heaven permits,” answered Mme. 
Brehal. 

She accompanied this declaration with a smile which recompensed 
George tor his obedience. The doctor received a warm pressure of 
the hand, and he was not so^'ry to go, for had he not said to Courte- 
nay all that he wished to say. They had parted the evening before 
rather abruptly, and they had not come together to the Avenue de 
Yilliers. 

George once more Kissed Mme. Brehal’s hand; she rang for her 
maid, and they departed. 

Mme. Brehal’s people adored her; and those whom they met in 
the hall questioned the doctor, who reassured them as to their mis- 
tress’s condition. The coachman, entirely recovered from his falh 
came up to Coulanges in the court, and said: 

” All! if only monsieur had not forbidden me to go to the police,, 
how 1 would have punished the little rascal who killed Max and 
broke madame’s legs! 1 am sure that he must be roaming about the 
opera every evening, to open the carriage doors; and 1 could recog- 
nize him, for my whip cut his face. 1 hav^ me to search for him 
now, as madame can not go out, and 1 shah do so to-night.” 

“Very well, my friend,” responded the doctor, “but, if you 
meet him, 1 advise you not to appeal to the police. They would 
not arrest him, as they would not understand the story of the ball in 
Max's ear.” 

“ 1 don’t know; some of them have served in the cavalry. How- 
ever, monsieur may be easy; I shall not appeal to them. 1 shall 
content myself with grabbing him by the collar and giving him a 
good beating.” 

“ That would be worse still. You would be taken to the station, 
and madame would not keep you in her service. Do you know 
what i would do if 1 were in your place? I would simply foilovy 


:202 THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 

the individual, and find out where he liees. Then come and tell me, 
and 1 will take charge of the rest.” 

“As monsieur v ishes,” muttered the coachman, not too well 
pleased. 

The two friends went out on the Avenue de Villiers. 

They had each come in a cab, but neither of them had kept his 
cab. 

They were iu no hurry, and they wanted to talk, so by mutual 
agreement they descended the avenue on foot. 

“ If that coachman should put his hand on Pontaurnur’s agent, 
we should make a great step on the road to discoveries,” said 
Courtenay. 

“It seems to me on the contrary that we would not be much 
more advanced,” replied Coulanges. “ Pontaumur directed every- 
thing, we have do doubt of that. What do we care for his agent? 
The great point is to know exactly the part played by Mademoiselle 
Aiezenc in the two attairs.” 

“ You are light. But do you understand why Madame Brehal 
sends me to make propositions of peace?” 

“ Aladame. Brehal will not believe in evil. And you can at any 
time tell her the truth in regard to her proteg^. But the errand she 
Jias sent you on furnishes you with an excellent excuse to pene- 
trate the enemy’s camp.” 

“ The tact is, if i were not obliged to, 1 should never set foot in 
that apartment of the Rue Blanche, wheie, perhaps, Maurice’s as- 
sassination was plotted. Alademoiselle Mezenc inspires me with an 
instinctive repulsion, although 1 have difficulty in believing that a 
girl so cold and proud has prepared abominable crimes.” 

“ 1 also have difficulty in believing it. But you know the prov- 
erb: Still waters run deep We must try to see what this water 
hides under its calm surface. In an hour’s conversation you can 
find out what this 5 "oung person feels toward Madame Brehal. And 
then we will try to discover the life led by this angel of purity, who 
pretends to remain a virgin and a martyr, since she has lost her 
fiancee. Those are almost precisely the words she used when 1 was 
alone with her the other day in the marble pavilion. Between our- 
selves, 1 should not be surprised if she had had very intimate rela- 
tions with Pontaumur for a long time.” 

“ And when I think how near Maurice came to marrying her!” 

Courtenay was silent. The discourses of his friend doubtless 
Interested him, for he was absorbed in refiections which could not 
be pleasant ones, to judge from his countenance. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL.- 


203: 


Coulanges respected his reverie, and afier a long silence they ar- 
rived at the end of the Avenue de Yiiliers, where it runs into the 
houlevaras. Here they weie to separate, for to go to the Rue 
Blanche, where Mme. and Mile. Mezenc lived, the Boulevard de» 
Batiguolles is the shortest road, and the doctor’s way lay in the op- 
posite direction. He was about to talie leave of his friend, when 
Courtenay said, abruptly: 

“ Have you anything particular to do?” 

“No. 1 promised anoiher visit to Madame Brehal during the 
day, but I did not say w'hat lime. 1 expect Delpiiine, who prom- 
ised to come and receive her reward for the information she fur- 
nished me yesterday in regard to Pontaiimur. But she is not won- 
derfully punctual, and if she arrives before me, she will wait. Whjr 
do you ask that?” 

“ Because 1 would like you to accompany me.” 

” To Mademoiselle Mezenc’s? You can’t think of it, my dear 
fellow! 1 scarcely know her, and I am not, like you, Madame- 
BrehaEs embassador. I should trouble you in the accomplishment 
of your mission, and I should be troubled myself, for I should not 
know what to do.” 

” 1 do not ask you to go in with me, but only to wait for me at 
the door.” 

” Suppose she should be at the window?” 

” VYell, wait for me in the Place Blanche, which is quite near 
her house.” 

“ Very willingly; but for what purpose?” 

” 1 want very much to tell you the result of my interview with 
her. After that interview, 1 shall probably have a decision to take, 
and 1 shall need your advice.” 

” 1 think you could dispense with it very w^ell, but 1 shall not 
refuse it. Let us go together to your embassy, since you appoint 
me your first attache.” 

They walked side by side along the Boulevard des Batignolles, 
keeping close, in order to avoid the glare of the sun, to the wall of 
the reservoir. Courtenay had become silent again, and Coulanges^ 
amused himself by watching the promenaders under the shade of 
the trees planted on the other side of the street. They were chiefly 
working- girls and nurses, but suddenly he saw an umbrella of the 
most brilliant scarlet, w’hich seemed to be coming toward him. The 
umbrella crossed the street, and v as suddenly raised, discovering, 
the laughing face of Delphine du Rainey. 


204 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

“ Ah 1” sbe cried. “ What luck to meet I 1 have some news 
to tell you. 1 have found Fernando.” 

At these words, addressed to his friend, Courtenay looked up in 
considerable annoyance. 

He did not know Delphine, but he guessed without any difRcuKy 
that the damsel with the flaming umbrella was one of the doctor’s 
nnmerous patients, and he hoped that the doctor would quickly get 
rid of her. 

She came tripping forward, balancing herself on her high-heeled 
shoes, and said to CouJangts, who appeared delighted at the meet- 
ing. 

” 'Ves, 1 have tracked the dark gentleman, and 1 know all about 
liim 1 feel like singing: ' 11 y a des gem qus se disent Espagnols — ’ ” 

'' Et qui ne sont pas du tout Espagnols,'' finished the doctor, who 
was well acquainted wdth the repertoire of the open-air conceits, 
“lam not astoniished: 1 warned you. But tell me your story.” 

“ Monsieur is with you?” asked Delphine, regarding Courtenay, 
who had approached. 

“ My best friend. You can speak before him. George, let me 
present you to Madame du Rainey, who is shortly to make her debut 
on one of our great lyric stages.” 

George bowed coldly, and glanced at Coulanges with a frown. 

“ It w’as for her,” continued the doctor, ” that 1 purchased that 
little piece of furniture 1 spoke to you about.” 

George, at this, changed his demeanor, and smiled pleasantly; 
and it was well that he did, for Delphine, who had taken umbrage 
at his severe air, was about to decamp without even commencing 
her interesting recital. 

“1 am afraid that my story will not interest monsieur much,” 
she said, simpering. 

“Oh, yes, indeedi” exclaimed George. “A story related by a 
pretty woman is always interesting.” 

“Ah! you are pleasant now. A moment ago, you glared at me 
so that you frightened me. I am very easily frightened.” 

“ Yes, 1 know that you are a regular sensitive plant,” laughed 
the doctor; “ but you are not frightened now. M}’’ friend is no 
more a bugbeai than 1 am. So you can proceed with your narra- 
tive. Besides, he knows a little about it; 1 have explained to him 
how you made the acquaintance of a gentleman who was after your 
chiffonier. You have seen him again, it seems?” 

“Yes; and 1 was on my way home when 1 perceived you. If it 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


205 


will not tire your friend to mount four flights, come with me to the 
Hue de Constantinople. 

“Another time, my dear, 1 will bring my friend, who will be 
charmed to hear you sing your great air from ‘ La Belle Helene/ 
But to-day we are in a great hurry. My friend has an appointment 
with his notary/' 

“What luck! 1 have no notary, because 1 have no houses or 
stocks. And when 1 think that 1 might have had a tine package of 
bank-notes, if that villain of a Fernando had not rummaged in the 
feet of the chiffonier you gave me! For you can not make me be- 
lieve that the hiding place did not contain valuables. I have kept 
the pink string wuth which they were tied up.” 

George listened impatiently to this flow of words, and Delphine, 
perceiving it, said: 

“ You want to talk here? Well, 1 don’t care. We are m the 
shade, and we sha’n’t be disturbed. Only, 1 don’t care to remain in 
one place; let us walk up and down, you on my left, and your friend 
on my right. The sidewalk is broad enough for three.” 

They had to agree to this arrangement, under penalty of losing 
confldences which promised to be interesting. 

“ Did you tell him what you thought of his conduct?” asked 
Coulanges. 

“ 1 wanted to, but 1 remembered the instructions 3"Ou gave me. 
You advised me to follow him and try to find out where he lived. 
Well, doctor, 1 know now, and 1 hardly expected that we were 
neighbors.” 

“ What I He lives in your quarter?” cried Coulanges, who knew 
perfectly that Pontaumur lived in the Avenue d’Eylau, very far 
from the Rue de Constantinople. 

“ Not exactly. He is a Castilian of the Batignolles; and I have 
learned queer things. There is a lady who goes to his house, closely 
veiled.” 

Coulanges and Courtenay exchanged a glance. 

“ But 1 am beginning at the end, and 1 must tell you in the first 
place how 1 caught him. 1 went out, after breakfast, to have my 
fortune told. 1 know a clairvoyant who lives near Montmartre, and 
1 wished to know if Fernando would return. I could net find a 
place in the tramway and 1 walked along the boulevard where wo 
now are, till, as 1 came to the Place Clichy, where there is a 
statue—” 

“ The statue of Marshal Moncey.” 

“ I don’t know. Well, what do I see? A pretty coupe, stop- 


306 


THE COHSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


ping at the corner of the Rue Amsterdam and Fernando getting 
out.” 

A dark green coupe, drawn by a sorrel horse?” 

“ Sorrel is a sort of yellow, isn't it? Then it was a sorrel. Do 
you know him?” 

“Perhaps, but go on.” 

“ 1 pretended to be looking in a shop window. Fernando did not 
see me, but 1 have eyes in the back of my head, and, without turn- 
ing, 1 saw him enter on foot the Avenue de Ciichy.” 

“ Which was formerly called the Grande Rue des Batignolles?” 

“ Probably. Then 1 said to myself: ‘ My good fellow, 1 am go- 
ing to find out what you have come here for,' and I started, at a 
distance, to follow him. The Avenue de Clichy is always full of 
people. But it leads to the fortifications, and 1 was wondering if 
Fernando was going there, when he turned up a street 1 did not 
know. 1 did not wish to lose him and I hurried my steps. When 
1 reached the corner where he had turned, 1 saw him, still walking 
on. There was no one else in the street at the moment and 1 could 
not risk following him, but 1 remained at the foot of the street and 
five minutes after I saw Fernando stop at the end, quite at the end 
of the street, and enter a house. 1 had him, you see.” 

“ But you did not stop there, 1 hope?” 

“ Ko. 1 commenced by looking at the sign, and 1 saw (hat the 
name of the street was the Rue Ganneron; and then 1 dashed into 
it, keeping close to the houses. Here and there, there was a store 
and children playing about the doors. It was as still as a village 
street, and, at the end, the wall of the Montmartre cemetery. Ah! 
Fernando has chosen a queer place to bve in, and the view from 
the windows must be lively, cypresses and tonabstones.” 

“ I certainly scarcely expected to learn that this lord had elected 
to live in the proximity of a cemetery. Are ^mu sure that he lives 
tnere?” 

“ On the contrary, 1 am sure that he does not. But he comes 
there every day and sometimes twice a day.” 

“ Is he a counterfeiter?” asked the doctor, laughing. 

“ Ko, but he receives a lady there. 1 don't think much of the 
house outside, but it is very dm inside.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ My dear doctor 1 have a tongue in my head. 1 discovered a 
fruit- womsn and 1 entered her shop to buy some apples. She was a 
talker, 1 can tell you, and sue told me all that 1 wished to know, 
Fernando has no servants in his house, and no one enters it except 


THE eONSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


207 


liimself and the lady. They have each a key; they always arrive 
separately and on foot. He leaves his carriage in the place where 
the statue is. The lady perhaps has hers, which waits somewhere 
else. The next house has been for rent for some time, and no one 
wants it. The fruit- woman herself is charged with renting it.” 

George did not lose a word of this somewhat rambling recital, and 
the doctor exclaimed: 

“ Delphine, you are decidedly the most intelligent woman 1 know! 
^nd it is a pleasure to listen to your adventures.” 

“ W"ait! 1 have kept the best till the last. 1 have seen the 
iafly.” 

“Ah! Bah!” 

“ Yes, indeed; while 1 was talking with the fruit- woman, she 
passed before the shop.” 

“ What did she look like?” 

“ I could not see her face. She wore a thick veil. But she is 
rather tall, a pretty figure, and was very simply dressed, all in 
black.” 

“ And you did not wait for her return?” 

“ Not 1! 1 hart enough of it. 1 paid for my apples, talked a 
jittle longer with the fruit- woman and learned some other things, 
which did not interest me much, for instance, the name of the 
owner of the house. It was Madame Fresnay.” 

“ Madame Fresnay!” repeated George. “ That house belongs to 
Madame Fresnay?” 

“ That wts certainly the name the fruit-woman gave me,” replied 
Delphine, a little startled at the vehemence of the doctor’s friend. 
“ Do you know her?” 

“ No, why?” 

“ Now, my dear,” interrupted the doctor, “ you had better think 
no more about your Fernando. Keep the twenty-five louis he gave 
you, and cut him dead if you meet him.” 

• “ That is what 1 shall do. But 1 have lost what was in the 
chiffonier. The claiivoyant told me that 1 had been on the point of 
finding a treasure.” 

“You consulted her all the same, then?” 

“ 1 have just come from there.’' 

“ Then, it was some time ago since you saw the lady.” 

“Two good hours. 1 was going home to tell 5'^ou all about it, 
W’hen 1 saw you. X won’t ask -you to come and see me now, since 
you are in a hurry, but you must come to-morrow with your friend.” 

“Yes, and you will lose nothing by waiting. 1 will biing you a 


208 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


present which will be worth more than the papers hidden in the 
toot of the chiffonier; for there was nothing there, 1 would beC 
Treasures, j^ou see, only exist in sensational romances. Your clair- 
voyant has stolen your money.” 

” 1 do not regret it. But 1 don’t wish to detain monsieur, who is^ 
going to his notary, and besides 1 have only time to dress to go to 
my rehearsal. Don’t forget that 1 depend upon your visit.” 

George responded with a smile, which Delphine was free to take' 
as a promise. and^Coulanges did not try to prolong the interview*. 

The damsel pirouetted on her high heels and departed, twirling 
her led parasol around her yellow head. 

” Well, Courtenay, what do you think of it?” asked the doctor. 
“ It seems to me that we are amply informed. By Jove! 1 never 
thought that information would come from that little <roose.” 

” What difference does it make where it comes from?” exclaimed 
Courtenay. ” The information is exact, you don’t doubt it nor I 
either, and Mademoiselle Mezenc is certainly Pontaumur’s mis- 
tress.” 

” Then, you think that it was she who entered the house in the 
bue Ganneron?” 

” Think it? Why, who could help thinking it? Do you doubt 
iti” 

”1—1 hesitate.” 

” What more do you need to be convinced? Didn’t you hear that 
the house belongs to Madame Fresnay?” 

” I heard that, but—” 

” Madame Fresnay is Mademoiselle Mezenc’s aunt. It is clear 
enougn, it seems to me.” 

‘‘It is not possible that Madame Fresnay is aware of her niece's 
conduct.” 

“You don’t know Madame Fresnay and you have no idea of 
W’hat she is capable. The words which led Saulieu to fight were 
spoken at that woman’s house, and it was slie who repeated them. 
Immediately after the duel, when you were still at Saint-Ouen, she 
knew the result of it.” 

” A re you sure of that?” 

” Perfectly sure She met Madame Brehal at her dressmaker’s 
and she told her that Maurice was killed. There is but one source 
from which she could have heard it. Pontaumur, on bis arrival in 
Pans, went to her house, or at least sent her a letter or a dispatch. 
’I'herefore, she was in the plot.” 


I 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


20 ^ 


I “ Well, but Madamoiselle Mezenc?” 

“ She also knew of the event before seeing me. She was watch- 
jug for me at the window, 1 saw her from my carriage, and when I 
I got out, she retired to take a carefully studied pose in one of the 
arm-chairs which adorn her studio. She expected me. And after 
i having played, like a consummate actress, the comedy of sorrow^ 
she had the audacity to allow me to perceive that she was in love 
with me. All is clear now. Pontaumur has been this woman’s 
lover for a long time. He tried, in the first place, to please Madame 
Brehal, and if he had succeeded in marrying her, he would have 
i shared his wife’s money with Mademoiselle Mezenc. W hen he un- 
derstood that Madame Brehal would not have him, he formed another 
scheme. Saulieu presented himself, and Mademoiselle Mezenc ac- 
cepted him temporarily; but she had resolved to marry me. 1 re- 
member that she did all she could to make me notice her, and she 
succeeded. 1 thought her charming, and 1 made the mistake of 
letting her see it. It was then that Saulieu’s death was resolved 
upon. They have killed him; and if 1 had fallen into the trapx 
which his unworthy set for me, their plans would have sue 

ceeded. Come, acknowledge that my reasoning, founded upon 
facts, is irrefutable; acknowledge that Mademoiselle Mezenc, Ma- 
dame Presnay and Monsieur de Pontaumur are wretches who must 
be exterminated.” 

” OhI 1 do not defend them,” said Coulanges. ” But it is not 
proven to me yet, that Pontaumur took the two women into his 
confidence, when he charged Corleon with preparing Saulieu’s as- 
sassination, and the other agent, whom we do not know, with arrang- 
ing the accident which was to have killed Madame Brehal.” 

” 1 shall know all that for a certainty, when 1 have seen Made- 
moiselle Mezenc.” 

“You persist, then, in your project of going to her house?’" 

“ Yes. 1 shall have the self-control to look her in the face and to 
speak of the noble woman her infamous lover attempted to destroy; 
her answers will aid me to find out the truth. You will wait for 
me, as we have arranged. 1 have a presentiment that this interview 
with Maurice’s will be decisive.” 

The two friends had by this time i cached the Place Moncey. 

“ There is the Avenue de Clichy,” said the doctor, “ and this Rue 
Ganneion which runs to the cemetery, must be the third or fourth 
on th3 right. If 1 did not tear to be surprised by Pontaumur, 1 
should propose to go and have a look at the house.” 

“ It is possible that 1 may do so Inter.’' said Courtenay, “ but the 


210 


THE COHSFQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


time has not yet come. Let us go on. The Hue Blanche is not tar, 
and Mademoiselle Mezenc must have returned by tiiis time.” 

Coulanges made no objection. He also wished to end with uncer- 
tainty as soon as possible. They picked their way through the 
liorse-cars and omnibuses, which cross each other in all -directions. 
When they were ha.T-way across the place, the doctor was accosted 
by one of his patients, who was looking for a seat in an omnibus 
and was in despair at finding them all full. Courtenay saw the 
meeting and kept on his way, leaving Coulanges to disengage him- 
self as best he could. The doctor soon succeeded in finding a place 
lor the lady, but Courtenay was already at the corner of the Rue de 
Douai, when Coulanges arrived opposite a brauch postal and tele- 
graph office, which was about half-way between the above men- 
tioned street and the Place Moncey. 

A woman came out of the office as he passed, a woman who, on 
seeing him, hastily lowered her veil, and hurried across the street 
at the risk of being run over. Coulanges had had time to recognize 
her, and he stopped short in amazement. George had seen nothing, 
lor he had turned into the Rue de Douai; but the doctor, who, a 
moment before, was still hesitating to believe that Mile. Mezenc had 
taken any active part in an attempt at murder, the skeptical doctor 
could no longer doubt, after what he had seen upon her face. 

He did not commit the mistake of running after Mile. Mezenc, 
and he even had the presence of mind not to turn and follow her 
with his eyes. All was done so quickly, that Mile. Mezenc might 
very well believe that the doctor had not recognized her, although 
he had been for a moment almost face to face with her. He could 
not desire anything better, and lie hastened to catch up with Cour- 
tenay, whom she certainlv had not perceived, for he was already in 
the Rue de Douai at the moment she left the office. 

“ >:ou will never change, my poor friend,” said George, as Cou- 
langes joined him. “You stop to speak to every woman you meet.” 

“ You need not complain of the one who just spoke to me. You 
owe to her the knowledge of the share Mademoiselle Mezenc had 
in the attempt against Madame Brehal.” 

“ What nonsense are you talking now?” 

“ 1 am telling you the truth. If my patient had not detained me 
a few instants, 1 should not have encountered Mademoiselle M-e- 
zenc.” 

“ What I You have seen her!” 

“ At the door of the telegraph oflSce, which you passed two min- 
utes before me.” 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


211 


“ Did you speak to her?” 

” 1 wasn’t such a fool. 1 pretended not to see her and she hurried 
away. She was going toward the Place Moncey, but she can not 
be very far, and we had better walk fast, for she might have Hie 
idea of turning back, and we must not let her know that you were 
ahead of me. It was lucky that you took this street. If you had 
gone straight on, she might have recognized you from behind.” 

” If she had, what then?” 

” Come, 1 tell you, come quickly, and when we are snfe in the Rue 
de Bruxelles I will explain myself.” 

Courtenay submitted, and when they had turned out of the Rue 
de Douai, the doctor said: 

” I was wrong. She would not think of following me, as she 
only longed to get away from me. We can talk now; and I will 
begin by telling you that Delphine exactly described the dress of 
the person wiio visits Monsieur de Pontaumur in the Rue de Gan- 
neron, black gown, thick veil — ” 

” Not so very thick, since her face was not invisible.” 

” She had raised it, probably to speak to the telegraph employees,, 
and quickly as she lowered it, 1 had time to notice—” 

“What?” 

” That her face bore the very evident mark of the lash of a whip.*’^ 

” And you think — ” 

‘‘ It was given her by Madame Brehal’s coachman, of course. 
The good man will have no need to seek tor the boy who introduced 
the lead ball into his horse’s ear. 1 have found him, myself, this 
pretended boy, although he has changed his costume. Yes, mv 
dear fellow. Mademoiselle Mezenc dressed herselt as a man to per- 
form the operation herself, 1 am sure of it. The mark she be^rs 
could have been made by nothing else than a whip. 1 am positive- 
ly certain of that; 1 would swear to it in court. Now, draw youi' 
own conclusions.” 

” The woman is a monster!’ 

‘‘ Indeed, the qualitication is not too harsh. Yes, she is a mon- 
ster of wickedness and hypocrisy. What must she be to try and kill 
Madame Brehal, who had loaded her with benefits, and to go and 
meet' her lover close to the cemetery where \\qv fiance buried? 

, Ah! she must be very clever to know how to commit so many 
crimes without any one suspecting her save ourselves, and we were 
reproaching ourselves just now for doubting her innocence. We 
are certain of the truth, now, but we can do nothing against her; 
she is a woman and immunity is assured io her.” 


THE COHSEQUENGES OF A DUEL. 


212 

“ You are mistaken. The punishment will come,” said Georpje 
in a hollow voice. 

” The only one which you could inflict upon her would be to tell 
her protectress that she is unworthy of her kindness; but that would 
not do her much harm, for I don’t suppose she cares to' see again 
tne woman you are going to marry. Well, there is no longer any 
need of going to the Rue Blanche, and 1 congratulate you.” 

‘‘You need not congratulate me. 1 am going there.” 

” "What! you still wish to take Madame Brehal’s message! You 
are going to act as if you did not know Mademoiselle Mezenc’s 
character! True, you need not fear meeting her, as 1 have just seen 
her in the street, but if she should return — ” 

” 1 wish to see her. 1 must. Before condemning her, i want to 
have a proof 1 lack, a proof of another crime, more horrible still. 
Wait for me as we arranged, and I promise that you will not have 
to wait long.” 

Coulanges could not understand, but he saw that his friend had 
coriceived a plan which all the reasoning and all the exhortations in 
the world would not prevent him from executing. Ee followed 
Courtenay to the Place Banche and took up his position before a 
shop window, while George quickly descended the street and en- 
tered the house where he had come a month before to announce 
Maurice Saulieu's death. 

George knew well what he was going to do. He resolutely 
mounted the staircase, and, wnen he reached the third floor, ha 
rang wi'h a firm hand. 

” Will you ask Madame Mezenc it she can receive me?” he said 
to the maid who opened the door. 

” Madame is not very well, and mademoiselle is out, but she will 
soon return,” answered the girl. ” If monsieur will wait in the 
studio, madame will join him there. I was just dressing her and 
arranging her chair for her.” 

This exactly suited George, who cared much less to see Madame 
Mezenc than to visit the studio where Mademoiselle Mezenc worked. 

The maid conducted him ihtre and left him alone. Nothing was 
changed in the studio since the day he had entered it before. He 
saw again the high backed chair, where Mamlce's JiaiicSe had been 
seated in the attitude of sorrow, the easels, the faded curtains, and 
the lathe which had been used to make the feet of the famous 
chiffonier. He had come for the express purpose of examining this 
Jathe, and he went straight up to if. It did not appear to have been 


THE CONSEQUEN-CES OF A DUEL. 


213 


used recently. The shavin s had been swept up, but the dust was 
thick upon the tools which enciioibered the table. 

Courtenay saw all this at a glance, and he perceived in one corner 
a box, where had been cast pell-mell, nails, screws, tacks, etc. He 
took up this box and shook it. “At lastl“ he murmured. “1 
knew 1 should find this last proof. 

tinder the nails there were some lead bullets and some wooden 
balls. Both were ol the same size, but almost all the wooden balls 
had some slight detect. Three or four only were perfectly round, 
and these were covered with a thin layer of metallic paper to give 
them the appearance ot lead. 'Without hesitation Courtenay put 
two real bullets and two false ones in his pocket, noiselessly gained 
the outside door of the apartment, and descended the stairs more 
quickly than he had mounted them. In five minutes he found 
Coulanges pacing up and down the pavement of the Place Blanche, 
and said to him, simply; 

“ 1 have it." 

“ Whal?“ asked the puzzled doctor. 

“ The proof that Mademoiselle Mezenc aided her lover to assassin- 
ate hev fiancee. It was she who manufactured with her own hands 
the false bullet with which Corleon loaded the pistol our friend 
used. Look! Here are some like it. 1 discovered them in her 
studio.” 

“ A judge would condemn her on nothing but this,” exclaimed 
Coulanges, after turning them over and over again in his bands. 

“ And we also condemn her, do we not?” 

“ 1 have done so some time ago. She and her odious accomplices 
have twice merited death ; but it is not in our power to apply the 
penalty. Let us forget these wretches, and content yourself by be- 
ing happy with the lovely woman whom they wished to kill, as they 
have killed Saulieu.” 

“ Do you think that they will let her live?” 

“1 think they would try again it they could, but 1 defy them. 
They can not get into her sicK-room, where her broken limbs keep 
her — ” 

“For how long, doctor?” 

“ Sixty days, at least. 1 shall take charge of guarding her, and, 
when she goes out again, you will watch over her, for you will be 
her husband.” 

“ Do you promise me that during those sixty days no one shall ap- 
preach her, and will you dare to forbid her to receive any communi- 
cation from outside, under pretext that the slightest emotion would 


314 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


be injurious? You are a physician. She has confidence in you^ 
and she will obey you.’’ 

“ 1 can do that, hut why? ’ 

Promise me that you will do it.’’ 

“Well, 1 promise, but tell me your purpose in thus shutting 
Madame Brehal up.” 

“You shall know when the purpose is attained, and that will be 
soon.” 

“ But, meanwhile?” 

“ Meanwhile, m}’’ friend, ask me nothing, be astonished at noth- 
ing. Let it be sufficient tor you to know that, to avenge Maurice 1 
am going to do what Maurice himself would have done, it they had 
not killed him; you yourself said so. Farewell, 1 have not a niinute 
to lose. Not a word to Madame Brehal.” 

“ He is crazy,” thought Coulanges, watching George’s retreating 
figure. 

But George was not crazy. Never, on the contrary, had he been 
more clear-headed, more master ot himself and more resolute. He 
had formed his plans, and, if he sought his friend only to quit him 
almost immediately, it was because he had not a minute to lose to 
trace the line ot conduct which must be pursued toward Mrae. 
Brehal. 

But he had not finished wilh Mme. Mezenc and her daughter. 

While Coulanges was ihoughttully wending his way toward the 
Avenue de'Villiers, George ran down the Rue Blanche again and 
mounted four steps at a time the staircase which led to the Mezenc’s 
apartment. He hoped to get back before bis short absence had 
been noticed; and in this hope he had taken the precaution to leave 
the door open, but he found it closed and he was obliged to ring. 

“ Mademoiselle has returned,” said the maid. “ She knows that 
you had come and she greatly regretted not having seen you. But 
madame is too ill to leave her room to-day.” 

Everything was exactly as George desired it, tor he no longer 
cared to see the mother since he had discovered the false bullets 
made by the daughter. He wondered how Mile. Mezenc would re- 
ceive him, but he knew perfectly what he was going to say to her; 
his words were prepared. He had only to alter them a little as cir- 
cumstances would dictate and to restrain his indignation in the pres- 
ence of the odious woman, whose wickedness he was now well 
aware of. 

The servant ushered him into the salon and went to intorm her 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


215 


mistress of his arrival. He was kep^ waiting some time and he 
divined the reason. 

She is arranging her face,” he thought, bitterly. ” She hopes 
that 1 shall not see the traces of the blow she received when trying to 
murder Gabrielle.” 

He was not mistaken. At the end of a quarter of an hour Mile. 
Mezenc appeared, and he saw at the first glance that, thantis to a 
skillful application of powder, the mark was scarcely apparent, the 
mark which the doctor had seen in full daylight, while the salon 
was lighted by only one window, which looked out on a court. 

Mile. Mezenc had not changed her dress, and she appeared very 
calm. Her eyes alone reflected a slight feeling of uneasiness, anil 
George sa v that she was wondering why he had come. 

“Mademoiselle,” be said, without preamble, “ 1 left here just 
now with very keen regret at not finding you in; 1 feared to disturb 
your mother; but 1 remembered in the street that your maid had 
told me that you would soon return, and as 1 longed to see you to- 
day 1 came back.” 

“ Your assiduity flatters me, certainly,” replied Mile. Mezenc 
with pronounced coldness, “ but 1 should be obliged it you would 
tell me the reason of it.” 

“ Can you not guess that I come from Madame Brehal? Do you 
know that she has met with a serious accident?” • 

“ No, monsieur, I did not know it,” she answered, without the 
quiver of an eyelid. “ What has happened to her?” 

“ Her horse ran away with her last night as she was leaving the 
opera, and she has broken both her legs.” 

“ 1 pity her with all my heart, and 1 pity you also, monsieur. 
This will dela}^ your marriage.” 

“My marriage?” repeated Courtenay gloomily. “ It will never 
take place.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated Mile. Mezenc, calmly. “You have changed 
your mind very quickly. It was only the day f efore yesterday that 
Madame Brehal announced in your presence that she was going 
to marry you.” 

“It is not certain if she will survive her injuries, and, if she 
does, she will be a cripple. She knows it, and has released me 
from ray promise.” 

“ That is very generous on her part. Is this the news you were 
longing to tell me?” 

“ Yes, for you had suddenly ceased to come to Madame Bre- 
hal’s house, and 1 thought that the premature announcement 


216 


THE COKSEQUEHCES OE A DUEL. 


made to you in the marble pavilic n had influenced the decision 
which you appeared to have taken.” 

A light appeared in Mile, Mezenc’s eyes. 

“And if it weie so?” she asked, looking Courtenay full in 
the face. 

“If it v^ere so, mademoiselle, 1 should dare to confess that 1 
was deceived as to my real sentiments; 1 thought, for an instant, 
that i loved Madame Brehal, and she thought Hiat she loved 
me. We have both discovered that we were mistaken.” 

“ A strange eiior, really. 1 have always known whom 1 loved.” 

“ Because you have never experienced the illusions oi a worldljr 
existence, but have listened only to your own heart. From com 
Stantly hearing that we were a well assorted couple, both in fort- 
une and position, we ended by persuading ourselves, Madame 
Brehal and I, that we ought to many. The accident which has 
happened to her has opened our eyes, and with common accord 
we have decided to remain only friends as in the past. She has 
taken her liberty, and 1 have taken mine.” 

“ I congratulate you, monsieur; but why have you judged me 
worthy of receiving this confidence?” 

“ 'you ask me that? Have you then forgotten our interview in 
this studio, which 1 entered a short lime ago, and fled from it, be- 
cause ihe memory^of a vanished hope oppressed me?” 

“ Ho, 1 have not forgotten it,” murmured Marianne, with an emo- 
tion which was not feigned, for she comprehended now what 
George's purpose was. 

“ It has never left my memory, that scene where courage failed 
you, and where 1 was lacking in frankness. Our unfortunate friend 
Was dead, and his image rose between us. How could we confess 
what we both felt? His body was not yet cold; but how many 
times since have 1 reproached myself for having hidden from you 
the avowal Maurice made to me as he expired in my arms!” 

“ What did he say to you?” asked the girl, almost in a whisper. 

** Be said to me — 5^ou will pardon my repeating this last confi- 
dence, which was almost a prayer — he said to me, then, when 1 was 
speaking of your love for liim—he said to me: ‘ It is you whom she 
loves/ ” 

Mile. Mezenc turned very pale, but she managed to answer: 

“ He told you the truth.” 

“ Ahl” cried Courtenay. “Then 1 can at last tell you that 1 
also loved you, and that 1 reproached myself bitterly for loving you 
— you, {\iQ fiancee of my best friend, i shuddered at not being able 


THE CONSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


217 


to conquer this love which seemed to me wicked. 1 swore never 
to see you again, and to cure myselt; 1 bound myself by a promise, 
but 1 had no sooner promised Madame Brehal to marry her than 1 
regretted it. When 1 guessed from your pallor the noble sentiments 
which made you so resigned; when 1 heard you proudly refuse 
Maurice's bequest, then 1 cursed my weakness, and 1 almost tell 
at your fec;t in that kiosk to which you have never returned.’' 

“ I could suffer without complaint, but 1 would not see again the 
woman you preferred to me." 

“ But jmu can do so now. 1 am free, and 1 have come to say to 
you: * Marianne, will you be my wife?’ ’’ 

“ You marry me— you? No, no; it is impossible. You are test- 
ing me by speaking so, and it is cruel. ] do not deserve it." 

" Will you believe me if 1 ask you to permit me at once to hand 
in your name and mine at the mayor’s office? Answer yes, and we 
will be married in ten days, as soon as the Jaw allows." 

" So quickly?" 

" Y‘es; for 1 have no one’s consent to ask, and I hope that Ma- 
dame Mezenc will not refuse hers." 

" My mother will do what 1 wish, but if Madame Brehal — " 

" Do n(»t pronounce Madame Brehal’s name I 1 foresaw that you 
would speak ot her, and 1 do not doubt but that you share m}^ opin- 
ion, that she must know nothing; we owe it to -her not to wound 
her pride, it will be easy, for this accident will keep her at home. 
1 will arrange with the physician to forbid all visits or letters. Be- 
sides, we shall not be married secretly, but we shall be married 
without display. We will find discreet witnesses, and invite no one. 
Four days after the ceremony, we will depart for Scotland or Swit- 
zerland, remain there till the end of July, and on our return I will 
present Madame Courtenay to Madame Brehal, who will receive her 
cordially, for she has never loved me, and she will have hud time to 
forget any injury to her vanity as a woman." 

"You are right in thinking of what it would cost me to hurt her 
feelings. She has always been goodness itself to me," murmured 
Mile. Mezenc. 

" She acknowledges it, the infamous creaturel" thought George; 
but he said aloud: "you accept, tlien? ’ 

" Yes, on one condition— on condition that you will not speak of 
our engagement to Doctor Ooulanges." 

" 1 will be very careful not to do so. He can not keep a secret, 
and he would repeat everything I told him to Madame Brehal." 


218 


THE COiiTSEQUEJSrCES OF A DUEL. 


And I ask you, also, not to force me to accept the fortune left 
me by the one who was our friend.” 

George turned white with indignation. He thought of the grave 
where Maurice lay murdered, the grave which the murderer and 
his accomplice could see fiom the windows of the house in the Rue 
Ganneron. 

But he had self-control enough to answer quietly. 

“ I understand your scruples, and I leave you free to do as you 
please. But don’t you think the time has come to ask your moth- 
er’s consent?” 

” Come!” she said, holding out her hand, which he forced him- 
self to take. 

He followed her to Mme. Mezenc’s room; and while Marianne 
was thinking, “ At last he is mine! His fortune is mine!” George 
was saying to himself: 

” Maurice, you shall be avenged!” 


CHAPTER XU. 

Two weeks had passed. 

Mme. Brehal was still in bed, but it was no longer a bed of suffer- 
ing but a bed of repose. 

Fractures, when they are simple are not dangerous, and the illus- 
trious surgeon whom Coulanges seconded with zeal had had little 
to do to repair the injury. Unfortunately he could not restore to 
hi§. patient the use of her limbs; science could do nothing here; time 
was necessary, nearly two months, and IMme. Brehal had still six 
weeks of inaction. 

She bore her forced seclusion cheerfully and her friends did all 
they could to amuse hei. George came every morning and every 
evening, and his constant attentions sufficed to console her. But 
Coulanges, who had not the same reasons for devotion, Coulanges 
never quitted her, so to speak. He arrived as soon as the maid had 
finished her mistress’s toilet, the toilet of an invalid of course, 
but as complete as if the invalid were on her feet, and he did not 
leave until the time that his patient felt the need, not of go’ng to 
bed, since she never left it, but of sleeping. 

He breakfasted and dined at the hotel in the Avenue de Filliers, 
and if he permitted himself to be absent for a few minutes to light a 
cigar, he went to smoke it in the park near the marble pavilion. 
He really enjoyed this existence, so contrary to his habits, and he 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


219 


was deJiffhted to be constantly in the society o1 a charming, well- 
bred woman, 

In the beginning it was not for his own pleasure that he had em- 
braced the charitable but little lucrative profession of a v(iluntary 
nurse, lie had done so out of devotion to George, for, alter lively 
discussions, he had ended by entering into the ideas of Maurice 
Suulieu’s avenger, and he had consented to aid his projects, hardy 
and impracticable as they appeared to him. And, his resolution 
once taken; he had entered with extreme ardor into the performance 
of the role which fell tu him by right in the execution of the plan 
conceived by Courtenay. 

To commence with, he had managed to extract from Mme. Brehal 
a request that he would establish himself at her house almost per- 
manently. He was a physician, and authorized, therefore, to pre- 
scribe tor his patient a particular mode of life, under pretext of im- 
posing upon her a system necessary to her recovery; and he had 
abused his authority by forbidding her any kind of excitement or 
fatigue. No visitor, no reading of the newpaper; visitors are agitating, 
and the papers aie full of frightful crimes, the reading of which cause 
too vivid sensations. No correspondence, which infallibly congests 
the brain. To write is a labor, and every letter o'werexciles the con- 
valescent who receives it. Two hours of George a day and no 
more; nothing retards a cure like loo frequent and too prolonged 
interviews with the man one loves. In a word, absolute repose of 
body and mind. 

Such were the doctor’s orders for this very special case, and he 
had been clever enough to obtain from the eminent surgeon a 
promise not to contradict these somewhat unusual prescriptions. 
He had persuaded this prince of science that Mme. Brtdial was an 
exceptionally nervous subject, and it was necessary to subject ber to 
complete sequestration. 

And the patient had submitted without difficulty to all the pro- 
hibitions imposed upon her. She had even anticipated Coulange’s 
intentions, for, the day after the accident, she had denied herself to 
every one. Her friends were society friends, such as one meets with 
pleasure but does not receive intimately. She had no relative, and 
the people who came to her Wednesday receptions, she was not 
devotedly attached to. 

She regretted only Marianne Mezenc, and it would have been diffi- 
cult to have prevented her from seeing her, ii Marianne had yielded 
to the wish which George Courtenay had been charged to express to 
her. But Mme. Brehal knew that the embassy had failed. George, 


220 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OE A DUEL. 


witliout explaining fully, liad let her understand that Mile. Mezene 
felt toward her henelactiess hostile sentiments, the origin of which, 
it was better not to seek for, lor fear of discovering that the girl did 
not merit the interest which Mme. Brehal felt in her. 

And Mme. Brehal, wounded at so much ingratitude, spoke no 
more of Marianne. 

There were also the domestics, whose silence it was necessary to 
insure, in order that nothing should trouble her peace. Courtenay 
bad warned his that he would instantly dismiss any one of them 
who should permit himself to speak ot the actions of his master, or 
set his foot, under any pretext, in the hotel of the Avenue de Vil> 
liers, or even speak to the people of the hotel, if they met. And as 
Courtenay’s house was a good one, they would take good care lO' 
obey orders. 

Mme. Brehal’s servants were loo well trained to commit any in- 
discretion, and, besides, they no longer saw her. Her maid alone 
had permission to approach her; and this confidential servant was 
a very intelligent person. “ The day your mistress is entirely re- 
covered,” the doctor had said to hei, “Monsieur Courtenay will 
hand you two thousand francs, if, while she keeps her room, no 
news from outside reaches her ears. To gain this recompense you 
must be silent, whatever you may hear. A word too much would 
make you lose your money, and would kill Madame; Brehal.” And 
the woman was silent, knowing well that the doctor was a man of 
his word, and that the promise made in M. Courtenay’s name would 
be kept. 

So the patient was as completely a stranger to what was taking 
place in Paiis as if she had been shut up in the palace of the Em- 
peror of China. And Paris was already thinking very little of her, 
although the accident which had happened to her had made sensa- 
tion enough It was reported that she was much more dangerously 
hurt than she really was, that it was the plo^sician’s opinion that she 
would never recover the use of her limbs; and as a cripple is of no 
use in society, the people whom she received, thinking that her 
house would never be opened again, cor soled themselves by taking 
their lea elsewhere. 

All was, therefore, proceedinff in the best possible manner. Cour- 
tenay had no doubt of the success of his exceedingly dangerous proj- 
ect. The plot was arranged ; the drama was moving rapidly on, 
and the denouement was approaching. The first scene of this de- 
nouement had even been played; but success depended upon the 
last, and Coulanges, not without a sensation of alarm, viewed the 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


221 


arrival of the decisive moment. Be was even tormented by remorse; 
he reproached himself for not having dissuaded his friend from a 
design, the execution of which seemed to him horribly dangerous 
now that it was close at hand. 

For the last three days especially the cheerful doctor had been 
almost melancholy, and this change, which Mme. Brehal noticed,, 
coincided with George’s absences, repeated absences which greatly 
disturbed the chatelaine of the Avenue de Viliiers. 

It was in vain that Coulanges redoubled his care and solicitude, 
he could not distract her; and one morning when he was forcing 
himself to try and cheer her up and succeeding less than ever, she 
said to him: 

“ Doctor, you are delightful, but be frank and confess that George 
no longer loves me.” 

” 1 would rather confess that 1 had poisoned one of my patients, 
exclaimed Coulanges. “George adores you. AVliere did you get 
such an odd idea?” 

“ I would liKe to be mistaken, doctor, but my woman’s instinct 
never decei res me. In the first place, George is no longer the same. 
When he comes here his mind is far away, and he does not coixe as 
regularly as he used. The day before yesterday 1 did rot see him 
all day, yesterday he remained only ten minutes, and to-day, you 
see,” she continued, regarding the clock, “it is noon. The hour 
of his morning visit is past. He will not come.” 

“ Didn’t he tell you that he had some business to attend to?” 

“ Yes, and it is precisely that which troubles me. George,, 1 
know, has no business. He does not meddle in politics, thank 
Heaven he does not gamble on the Bourse, and his fortune has never 
given him the least care. He has, therefore, taken a pretext, and 
when a lover uses pretexts it is a grave symptom.” 

“ 1 protest, as George’s friend and as a physician. Your diagno- 
sis of the case, my dear madame, is erroneous.” 

“ 1 do not pretend to oppose my science to yours, but do you be- 
lieve in presentiments?” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“Ido. And 1 am besieged by the idea that my happiness is 
threatened. If 1 should tell you that last night 1 dreamed that 1 
saw George making love to another woman you would laugh at me.” 

“ No, but 1 should try to show you that you were accusing him 
wrongfully. George loves only you, sees only you. Other women 
do not exist for him. George, my dear madame, in a fine case ot 


22'2 


THE COHSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 


exclusive love in the acute stage, an afiection with which 1 have 
never been attacked/' 

“ You are laughing. But 1 know that my destiny is being decid- 
ed at this moment; my heait tells me so.” 

‘‘ George will soon show yon tliat there is not the least reason for 
your tears, and that he has passed the morning with his notary.” 

” 1 would like to be sure of it.” 

” How can 1 procure for you that certainty? Would you like to 
have me find the accused for you, so that he can justify himself in 
your presence?” 

” 1 did not dare to ask you, but, since you have ofiered to, 1 wish 
you would go, my dear doctor, where you think you will find 
George and bring him to me. I suffer from his absences, and 1 want 
to see him.” 

Coulanges reflected for an instant, and said, rising: 

” Your wishes are laws for me, my dear madame, 1 will go.” 

” Thanks! How good you are!” murmured Mme. Brehal. 

‘‘But don’t take him unawares,” she added, gayly. ‘‘ Warn 
him that he is going to appear before his judge, and that 1 suinmon 
him to relate in detail all that he has done in three days.” 

The doctor bowed without answering. He w^as thinking. 

CoLilange took his leave to Mme. Brehal’s joy, for the desire to 
see George had seized her suddenly, as a caprice seizes upon an in- 
valid, and she wished to satisfy her desire at any cost. 

It must be said that passive obedience, in this case, did not cost 
the doctor much, for he also was uneasy, and his uneasiness did 
pot spring from a simple, presentiment. 

He knew upon what George relied to punish legally Maurice’s 
assassins, and, although he had tried to turn him from his project, 
the doctor was beginning to feel the moral responsibility weigh 
heavy upon him. 

‘‘ George told me how he passed yesterday,” he thought, as he 
left Mme. Brehal’s house, ‘‘ and the day ended uneventfully. Will 
it be the same to-day? George has not appeared this morning. That 
is a bad sign. 1 must find him, and his valet will tell me where he 
has gone. God grant that there may still be time to prevent a catas- 
trophe, for the more 1 reflect upon it, the more 1 fear that his terri- 
ble revenge will cost him dear. It is all very fine to make one’s self 
the instrument to punish the guilty whom the law does not reach, 
but the idea may be carried too far. 1 have not always advocated 
the employment of gentle means. 1 was indignant against those 
two criminals, and 1 allowed myself to be persuaded by Courtenay.” 


THE COKSEQUEXCES OF A DUEL. 


223 


CouIaDges took a cab and drove to the Rue de Milan. He found 
there the valet, and he noticed at once tiiat this man, who had served 
Couitenay for ten years, wore a troubled countenance. He had no 
need to question him for the domestic asked him point-blank: 

“ Has any misfortune happened to monsieur?” 

“Not that 1 know of,” answered Coulanges. “Why do you 
asK?” 

“ 1 thought that monsieur the doctor was with monsieur, and see- 
ing monsieur the doctor alone — ” 

“ Explain yourself more clearly, my friend; 1 do not understand 
what you mean.” 

“ 1 mean that monsieur had an affair this morning.” 

“An affair?” 

“ Yes, a duel.” 

“ Where did you get that idea?” 

“ Monsieur passed a part of the night in writing, and he did not 
go to bed. When 1 entered his room this morning the bed had not 
been slept in.” 

“If you have no other reason for thinking that Monsieur Courte- 
nay this morning-—” 

“ Pardon me, monsieur the doctor, I have another. 1 found 
monsieur loading his pistols, the pistols which monsieur the doctor 
gave him.” 

Coulanges turned pale. He remembered that George had come to 
him the day before to ask for those pistols with which Maurice 
Saulieu had been killed, and had tried in his presence the leaden 
and wooden bullets he had found in Mile. Mezenc’s studio. They 
had both seen that they fitted exuctly the caliber of the weapons 
purchased in M. Corleon’s presence. George Lad not said what ho 
meant to do, but Coulanges had guessed it and had made no oppo- 
sition to his taking away the pistols. It had seemed just to him that 
George should use them to punish the murderers. 

He now looked at things from a different point of view. 

“ And then this is not all,” continued the valet. “ Monsieur^ 
before going out, told me that, if he did not return, 1 should send 
to-morrow morning to monsieur the doctor a letter which he left 
upon the mantel-piece. If monsieur the doctor wishes to see it — ” 

Coulanges hesitated an instant, but, after reffection, he judged 
that he had a right to read a letter addressed to him, even before ther 
time appointed for delivering it had arrived. 


224r 


THE COiq^SEQUENCES OF A DUEL.' 


The valet brought it to him in ihe court where he had stopped, 
Laving no lime to lose. It ran as follows; 

“ My dear Friend,— It is for this morning between eleven and 
twelve. Yesterday, after 1 left you, I surprised a notedrom Mon- 
sieur de P. which leaves me no doubt. My measures are taken. 
They can not escape me. But that will not be all. The conse- 
quences of the act of justice 1 am about to accomplish are inevitable 
and I accept them in advance. After the event, 1 shall not prob- 
ably be able to see Madame Brehal, because 1 shall not be tree, and it 
is important that she should be informed of the facts which have 
determined my resolution. You alone are the one to tell her wl»at 
it is necessary for her to Know to judge my conduct. 1 rely upon 
you, and 1 am certain that, after hearing you, she will pardon me. 
Need 1 add that the secret must remain eternally between us three? 
J do not Know when 1 shall tee you, but 1 hope that I shall not be 
forbidden to communicate with yon, 

“ P.S — i am calm, because I have thought it all over, and 1 am 
■sure that my conscience will never reproach me. 1 have judged 
and absolved myself. 

May the jury do the same!” though Coulanges, not very much 
reassured. ” But we have not come to that yet, and 1 will not wait 
till to-morrow to know where he is.” 

“ Has monsieur the doctor any orders to give me for mon- 
sieur?” asked the valet, timidly. 

” No, no— only it is possible that monsieur may not return this 
evening. Come to my house to-morrow morning; I will tell you 
what to do,” said the doctor hurriedly, re-entering his cab. Before 
doing so, however, he looked at bis watch and saw that it was half 
past twelve. The hour indicated by George was past; the tragedy 
must have been plaj^ed, if it was to be played that day. 

” Never mind,” thought Coulanges. ” I have promised Madame 
Brehal. 1 must at all costa end my present position, which is no 
longer tenable. 1 shall arrive too late, but at least 1 shall have in- 
formation.” 

And he cried to the coachman: 

” Avenue de Cllchy! 1 do not remember the number, but 1 will 
stop you at the proper time.” 

Coulanges had seen only the entrance of this Avenue de Clichy, 
the day when he met quite near there. Mile. Mezenc leaving the 
telegraph office. But he remembered perfectly the photographic 
description given that same day by Delpbine du Rainey, and he 
knew that the house where the guilty couple met was situated at 
the end of a street which led from the avenue to the Montmartre 
■cemetery. 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


225 


Courtenay had described to him the exterior of this house, saying 
that he had obtained the means ot entering it, but he did not say 
what this means was. The next house not being inhubiled, if 
Delphine was to be believed, the doctor supposed that George must 
have hired it, and he regretted that he had not thought ot opposing 
any such idea. 

“ They may condemn him to ten years imprisonment,” thought 
Coulanges with anguish, “ and Madame Brehal would die of sor- 
row. Fool that ! was not to have stopped him! But, perhaps it is 
not too late yet.” 

When the cab reached the Place Moncey, he told the coachman to 
walk his horse up the avenue, Keeping to the right. In his worry 
he had forgotten the name of the street where the house was, but 
lie hoped he would recognize it by reading the signs; and, indeed, 
after passing many streets provided with odd appellations, he found 
what he sought. 

” Hue Ganneron, that is it,” he thought. 

And he judged that it would be well to leave his carriage, for it 
vvould only be an annoyance to him in what he had to do. Detect- 
ives always operate on foot and for good reasons; they can not stroll 
about, chat, obtain information nor profit by a chance encounter, 
if they are in a cab. 

Coulanges had no sooner left his than he congratulated himself on 
having done so. The street ascended so steeply that the horse 
would have had some difficulty in mounting it, and the noise of the 
wheels would have drawm to the windows the inhabitants of this 
little frequented place. The doctor walked on, examining the 
houses and shops and trying to give himself the appearance of a 
gentleman who was seeking lodgings. 

A hundred feet from the Avenue de Clichy, the ascent ceased, 
and at this point could be perceived at the end of the street, a gray 
wall above which appeared the trees ot the cemetery. The house 
must be oh the left, and the doctor saw with joy that there was no 
crowd before the door. 

” If there had been a murder or simply a violent scene, the whole 
quarter would be in an uproar. The woman has not come, but she 
will come perhaps, and George is doubtless watching for her. I 
have arrived in time to prevent him from blowing her brains out 
wu'th the pistol which killed Maurice. It would be more than a 
«rime, it would be madness and would cost him dear. The thing 
Is to know where he is hiding and how to get at him. i will com- 




THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


mence by questioning that fruit- woman who gave Delphine such 
good information two weeks ago.*’ 

The woman was at her door occupied in peeling potatoes, and the 
doctor had no difficulty in entering into conversation with her, for 
she called out to him to offer him her merchandise. 

He asked her if she were not charge fl with letting a house in the 
neighborhood, and he expected to learn that she had quite recently 
found a tenant. But the dame replied, to his great surprise: 

“ Yes, monsieur, at your service. It has been vacant these twa 
years. Eight quarters’ rent lost for my nephew who is a market- 
gardener at Argenteuil. If it suits you you can have it cheap, for 
not to gel a sou’s rent and pay the taxes is impossible. It is not a 
palace, of course, but it isn’t a bad house; there is a bit of a garden 
and a place to keep a horse and carriage. But I can not show it to 
you to-day. My nephew came yesterday and he forgot to leave me 
the key.” 

” 1 will return to-morrow,” said Coulanges, who was delighted 
to learn that Courtenay had not compromised himself in this dan- 
gerous neighborhood. “ But 1 can give a glance at it from the 
street.” 

” Oh, that is easy. Y'ou can see it from here, next to the house 
with green blinds, which is on the corner. That one has been let 
for a long time, and it belongs to a Madame Fresnay, you know 
her, perhaps? No? Well, that doesn’t make any difference. It is 
a true saying that only the rich have any luck.”* 

The conversation was interrupted here by the arrival of a cus- 
tomer, and the fruit- woman entered her shop to serve him. 

Coulanges, who had obtained all the information he wanted,, 
called out to her that he would return, and continued his way. 
It was not the house which was for rent that he wished to see,, 
but he desired to examine the other, the one Pontaumur had fur- 
nished to receive his unworthy mistress. 

It was pure curiosity on his part, but he could well afford to give 
himself that satisfaction, since he was sure now that no one had 
been killed there yet. 

He could not divine what had prevented a catastrophe. Had 
Marianne Mezenc failed to keep the appointment? or had George 
changed his resolution? He could not tell, but he knew that noth- 
ing had happened, for one does not fire two pistol-shots without the 
neighbors perceiving it, especially in a peaceful street where there is 
no sound of wheels to deaden the report. 

The house was two stories high, with six windows furnished with 


THE COi^SEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


227 


green blinds, which were tightly closed, as well as the door through 
which Delphine had seen enter a lady dressed in black. 

Coulanges did not commit the imprudence ot stopping. 

The truit-woman might reappear, and he did not wish her to see 
him contemplating the house. He saw that the street turned at 
right angles, continuing to the left, along the wall of the cemetery. 
The house, which was on the corner, must have another front, and 
Coulanges had only to turn this corner to be shielded from the curi- 
ous eyes of the fruit-seller. This he did, and he saw that on this 
side of the house there were no windows; the tenants lost nothing 
by this, for there was nothing to be seen but the wall of the grave- 
yard. 

But there was a door, a large double door, which probably gave 
access to an interior court, and which could not be used very often, 
for it was in very bad condition. 

Further on, only walls could be seen; and the street was abso- 
lutely deserted. 

“ It was, perhaps, by that door that Courtenay intended to sur 
prise them,"' said the doctor to himself. “ The place is well ar- 
ranged for anything of that sort; a man could escape this way with- 
out meeting any one. But what is the use of thinking anything 
more about it? 1 have seen all 1 can see, and 1 feel easier. 1 have 
now only to find Courtenay, and he must be either at home or at 
Madame Brehal’s.” 

He was about to retrace his steps when the idea came to him of 
seeing if there was not a crack in the door through which he could 
look. As long as he was there, there would be no harm in doing 
that, and there was no danger of his being observed, for everything 
was as silent as if the house had never been inhabited. 

He approached, therefore, gliding along the wall, and sought for 
a fissure to apply his eye to, when he perceived that the door was 
ajar; at this discovery, he started back in amazement. 

There was certainly reason enough for astonishment that M. de 
Pontaumur, who guarded himself so well, had neglected to barri- 
cade this entrance. It was even incomprehensible, and Coulanges 
immediately launched into other suppositions. 

“ Could George have gone out that way and forgotten to lock 
the door behind him?” 

On examining the lock nearer, he saw that the key ha 1 not been 
left in it, if indeed a key had been used. 

The lock was bent as if it had been forced. 

“More and more strange,” thought the doctor. “It is impos- 


22S 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


sible that it was Courtenay who did this. The picking ot locks is 
not a proceeding in use among people like us.” 

T he door opened, as he had supposed, upon a court, and, looking 
in, he saw that this court was kept with much care. Long rows ot 
benches full of flowers gave it the appearance ot a garden, and the 
inner side of the house was covered with vines. 

From the outside, no one would have suspected such an arrange- 
ment. 

Coulanges was debating whether he should push his investigation 
further, vrhen, on raising his hand, which had been resting against 
the door, he saw blood upon his fingers. 

He could not believe his eyes, and yet it was blood which stained 
his hand. A physician makes no mistake in such a case. 

He examined the door, and saw that it bore large bloody prints. 

”1 have arrived too late,”* he murmured. ‘‘The assassin has 
fled this way, and not long ago, for the marks which he left are 
still quite fresh. He evidently took this street, along the cemetery, 
and that is why 1 did not meet him. But — this assassin is not, ca.u 
not be George. He borrowed the dueling pistols of me, and intend- 
ed to use them; when one kills at a distance, he is not so covered 
with blocd that he marks everything he touches. Ko; some sharp 
instrument has been used, a knife or a razor, and 1 can not believe 
that George acted like a common malefactor. It was not he. But 
who was it?” 

Reason advised him to depart, and not mix himself up in 
affair where he could only be seriously compromised; but, on the 
other hand, the desire to know what had taken place impelled him 
to enter. 

“ 1 must warn Courtenay,” he thought; ” and I can tjot tell him 
anything positive, if 1 do not visit the interior of this house.” 

From the place where he was standing, he saw on his left a flight 
of steps, and on these steps two or three overturned flower-pots; one 
of them Tvas broken in pieces. The murderer had doubtless knocked 
them down, as he had rushed out of tlie house, and to have fled so 
precipitately he must have feared being caught. He had not even 
paused to close the door of the court or that ot the house itself. 

An idea then came to Coulanges— an idea which drove all the 
color out of his face. 

” Suppose that blood is George’s, and Pontaumur has killed him! 
Ihe scoundrel is quite capable ot using a dagger, and he is much 
stronger than George; besides, he had a legitimate right to defend 
hmself, if George presented himself pistol in hand. Decidedly,'* 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. * 229 ' 

concluded the doctor, “ 1 should be a coward if 1 remained in un- 
certainty as to my friend's fate!” 

Without hesitating further, he entered the court, and went 
straight toward the flight of steps which led to the interior of the 
house. Upon the threshold he stopped an instant to listen, and, 
hearing no noise, he entered. 

A. paved corridor led to a staircase covered with a new carpet; 
and upon this carpet, upon the balustrade, and upon the painted 
walls, Ooulanges again saw red spots. 

The murder must have taken place upon the second floor. 

Coulanges had advanced too far to retreat, and he conquered the 
disgust which he felt at walking, so to speak, upon blood, and 
mounted the stairs. 

When he reached the poorly lighted landing, he almost stumbled 
over a body stretched across it, and on regaining his footing, he saw 
that the body was that of a woman. 

“She!” he cried. 

His eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, and he recog- 
nized Marianne Mezenc. 

The unfortunate woman had been killed by a single blow on the 
left side of her throat — a blow given by a sure hand, which knew 
very well where to strike to sever' th#> carotid artery. 

She had not defended herself; her garments were not in disorder; 
and she must have been surprised at the moment she arrived, for 
the strings of her bonnet were not untied, and her veil was half 
down. 

Only part of her face could be seen; her chin, her mouth, and 
the lower part of her cheek, which still bore the mark of the whip. 

“ It was not George who did that.” 

Such was the doctor's first thought; and, in fact, it was impos- 
sible to admit that Courtenay had awaited Marianne at the top of 
the stairs to cut her throat before she had met her lover. And Cou- 
langes wondered if Pontaumur himself had not committed still an- 
other crime. 

He soon knew what to believe. 

Upon the landing there was a door, and he had only to push it 
open to see a frightful spectacle. 

At the foot of a lounge, with his arms thrown over his head, Jay 
the body of Pontaumur. 

He must have struggled with the energy of despair, for he was 
covered with wounds. The overturned chairs, the torn curtains, all 
showed that he had succumbed only after a terrible combat and 


2S0 * THE CONSEQUEKCES OF A DUEL. 

that he had disputed his life with many assassins. One man alone 
could not have overcome this colossus, and George had certsinly 
taken no aids to execute the wretch he had condemned. Therefore 
George was innocent of the double murder; and Coulanges had no 
ditBculty in guessing what had happened, for a secretary, broken 
open with blows of a hatchet, showed drawers pulled out and scat- 
tered papers. Two or three pieces of gold had fallen on the ground 
and the assassins had disdained to pick them up. 

“ 1 understand all,” murmured Coulanges, ‘‘ Thieves, knowing 
that the house had been hired and furnished by a rich man who 
did not live in it, thought that they could reap a rich harvest. But 
■when they found Pontaumur here, they attacked and killed him; 
and, after he was dead, they forced the secretary where he kept his 
money. During this operation, Pontaumur’s mistress arrived. The 
assassins heard her coming up the stairs, and one of them met her 
and stabbed her as she reached the landing. They are far away 
now, but if 1 had come a quarter of an hour earlier, 1 should, per- 
haps, have fallen into their hands and 1 should not have gotten out 
alive.” 

This was very well reasoned, but the doctor forgot, for the mo- 
ment, that he ran another danger almost as serious, and he suddenly 
remembered it. 

” By Jove!” he muttered, ” if 1 should be surprised here with two 
dead bodies, 1 should find myself in a pretty predicament. The 
least that would happen to me would be to be arrested and forced 
to explain what 1 was doing in this house.” 

Coulanges did not stop to reflect further. He quickly descended 
•the stairs, and went out as he had come in, without encountering 
any one. The street was still deserted, but he -judged it prudent 
not to pass by the fruit- woman, who might ask him embarrassing 
questions. He went in the opposite direction, along the wall of the 
<iemetery, without knowing exactly where the road led to. The 
great point was not to be seen in this neighborhood, and he re- 
gretted not having dismissed his cab, for he could not leave it with- 
out paying, and this mistake necessitated his showing himself again 
in the Avenue de Ciichy, which is the most frequented street in the 
quarter. 

” ^hat shall 1 do now?” he asked himself. ” In the first place, 

3 must find George, for 1 suppose he has not given up his project, 
and, if he should enter the house now, he might encounter the 
police. But where is he? The hour he mentioned in his letter is 
past. He is late, for reasons 3 do not know, but he will come; he 


THE COKSEQUEisCES OF A DUEL. 


231 


is, perhaps, at one ena of the Rue Ganneron, while, 1 am beating a 
retreat the other way.” 

The doctor, seized with uneasiness, commenced to run, and, after 
a long dHour, finally came out on the avenue. There, he took a. 
slower gait, in order not to attract the attention of the passers-by, 
and, going on toward the boulevard, he found his coachman, who^ 
was asleep on his box and consequently was in no way occupied 
With the acts of his passenger. 

Coulanges awoke him, paid him, and with great satisfaction saw 
him whip up his horse without turning his head. 

“ There is no one who will testify against me,” he thought.. 
” He did not look me once in the face.” 

But this was the least of his worries, and he commenced to w'alk 
up and down the sidewalk, without losing sight of the Rue Gan- 
neron. He continued this for a quarter of an hour, when a coupe 
stopped about fifty feet from him and he saw Courtenay alight. 

“ At lastl” he murmured, and he ran toward him, gesticulating 
to him to stop. 

George, who did not understand, received him with very bad 
grace. 

“ Why are you here?” he asked abruptly. 

” 1 will tell you, but come away, come quickly! And since you 
have been so imprudent as to use your own carriage, let us take it 
and go to Madame BrehaTs without losing a minute.” And a& 
George made a movement to pass him, he added r ” They are dead. 
Maurice is avenged.” 

” You are mocking me!” 

” Ko; 1 assure you, after having seen what 1 have, 1 am in na 
mood for jesting. They are dead, 1 tell you. They have been as- 
sassinated.” 

“ Who killed them?” 

“People who thought to find the house empty and entered tO' 
steal, Pontaumur was lying down, and they stabbed him with a 
knife. She came after they had finished with him, and they cut 
her throat. If 1 had entered whtle they were at work, they would 
have treated me in the same fashion, and you, too, my dear fellow. 
We have had a narrow escape. But do not let us remain here, i 
pray.” 

“ Why?” asked Courtenay, stunned by what had been told him. 

“ Why? Don't you understand that the crime may be discovered 
at any moment and we may be accused of having committed it? 
Y^ou must have been several times in the Rue Ganneron and you 


232 THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 

liave probably been noticed. 1 have just left it and 1 spoke to a 
fruit-woman who would certainly recognize me. Now, it will soon 
be known that one of the victims was your wife, and that you were 
to-day in the neighborhood of the house where she met her lover.” 

‘‘ J)o you think, then, that if 1 am questioned, 1 shall not tell the 
truth? 1 came to kill them.” 

” 1 know it and it is fortunate that you arrived too late. I have 
reflected much during the last two days and 1 have bitterly re- 
proached myself for not having dissuaded you from a senseless proj- 
ect. I went to your house this morning to tell you what 1 thought 
of it, and, when your valet gave me 3 mur letter, 1 thought that all 
was lost; the only hope was to reacn the house before you. 1 
hastened there, and found two dead bodies. The assassins, in es- 
caping/, neglected to close the door of the court. 

“It was by that 1 intended to enter. 1 had the key.” 

“ How did you procura it?” 

“ One evening, wlien 1 was examining the house, 1 found it in 
the lock, where Pontaumur had doubtless forgotten it, and 1 took 
it.” 

“ Well, if it is in your pocket, 1 advise you to throw it away; for 
it would have a bad look in case you should be suspected. 1 hope 
that, at least, you have not shown yourself this morning in the Rue 
Ganneron.” 

“No, 1 have been to my notary’s and my banker’s. 1 expected 
to be arrested this evening, and 1 wanted to have my affairs in 
order.” 

“ And you have the pistols with you?” 

“Yes,” said George. “ 1 loaded them with the bullets I found 
in the studio of the accomplice of our friend’s assassin.” 

“You should at least have buttoned up your overcoat. 1 can 
see the pistols now, and you will do me the favor of getting rid of 
them immediately.” 

“ 1 can not cast them into the street.” 

“No, but we are going to get into your carriage; you must leave 
them there and 1 will take them home. Come! we have delayed 
too long.” 

When they were seated in the carriage, Ooulangss, who had 
pushed the pistols under the cushions and given the coachman 
Mine. Brehal’s address, began as follows: 

“ My dear fellow, you are more lucky than you are wise. You 
are rid of those wretches, and you have no murder upon your con^ 
science. But you must prepare yourself for the consequences of 


THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DUEL. 


23a 


the event. What are you going to say to the charming woman who 
is impatiently waiting for you? She is surprised at not seeing you 
so frequently as formerly. She sent me lo tind you and 1 promised 
to bring you back with me.” 

“ 1 shall say nothing,” answered George. 

” It is nay opinion that it is best not to tell her, now that Made-* 
moiselle Mezenc lias been assassinated.” 

‘‘ So you think it best to tell her nothing?” 

” 'Yes, upon that point the friend and the physician are in ac- 
cord.” 

‘‘ Then, why are we going lo her )iou«e now?” 

” Because, 1 repeat, she insists upon seeing you to-day. She is 
very nervous and very disposed to think that you are hiding some- 
thing from her. It you did not appear, this idea would grow and 
you would have much difficulty in making your peace.” 

“lam in such a state of mind that 1 Tvould gladly put off the 
interview. I need time to calm myself after what I have under- 
gone during the last three days.” 

“ Y'ou need not remain long with Madame Brehal. This time, it 
will suffice if you simply show your face; but take my advice and 
do not defer this indispensable visit.” 

Courtenay, halt persuaded, did not say anything further, and the 
conversation ceased. 

They soon arrived at the Avenue de Villiers, which is not very 
far from the Avenue de Clichy. 

All was quiet as usual in the hotel, but they found, at the top of 
the staircase, the maid who had been watching for their arrival. 

“ Ah, monsieur the doctor,” she said hurriedly, “ it is time that 
you arrived. Madame is very agitated, and she has done nothing 
hut ask for you. ” 

“Well, announce us,” said Coulanges, not in the least alarmed. 

“Oh! she will be very glad to see you.” 

Mme. Brehal turned pale as she saw" them, and, without saying a 
word, allowed them to approach the bed. 

Mme. Brehal did not speak, but her eyes questioned George, who 
answered without hesitation: 

“ It is true. They are both dead, but they did not perish by my 
hand. She tried to murder you. It w"as she who, disguised as a 
street boy, placed a leaden bullet in your horse’s ear, and caused him 
to run away.” 

“ The proof of this accusation?” 

“ Ask Coulanges. Tie will show you the ball picked up on the 


234 : 


THE COHSEQUEHCES OF A DUEL. 


pavement where Max fell, and he will bear witness that 1 he next 
day your protegee still bore on her face the mark of a blow inflicted 
by your coachman’s whip.” 

‘‘ It is all true,” said Ooulanges, gravely. 

” And this crime was not the first. Maurice Saulieu was assas- 
sinated, for the duel was unfair. The pistol given him by a wretch, 
who was Pontaumur’s intimate friend, was loaded with a wooden 
bullet, and this bullet his fiancee fashioned with her own hands,” 

“She! Marianne! No! no! she is incapable of these infamies! 
IV hy should she have committed them! Monsieur JSauiieu adored 
her, and only aspired to make her happy, and 1, I was her devoted 
Triend—” 

” She would have spared you if you had not announced that you 
were going to marry me. But she resolved ou your death when she 
knew that you were to take the place she coveted. She had already 
rid herself of Maurice, who stood in the way of her designs. Now 
Coulanges will tell you what he has seen.” 

The doctor was expecting to be called on by his friend, and he was 
prepared. He related clearly and succinctly, but passing over the 
loo repugnant details, the history of his expedition which had been 
terminated by a ghastly discovery. He did not forget to mention 
fhe feeling which had led him to undertake this expedition, he con- 
gratulated himself on having arrived in time, and he pointed out 
the manifest intervention of Providence in the punishment of the 
guilty couple. 

Mme. Brehal, overcome with emotion, was weeping; 

George fell on his knees beside the bed, and said in a trembling 
voice: 

Nothing matters to me if you pardon and love me.” 

She had not the strength to answer, but he read in her eyes that 
she had already forgiven him. 

***** * * 

A month in Paris is a century. Already the crime of the Rue 
Ganneron is scarcely spoken of. 

The murderers have been arrested, and have made a full confes- 
sion: there were three of them, one of whom knew M. de Pontau- 
mur’s habits, having been employed by this person whose anteced- 
ents left much to be desired, although he had access to the best 
society. 

The case is not rare. 

It was discovered in the examination of the affair that he had 
made a fortune in the Brazilian slave-trade. , 


THE COKSEQUEFCES OF A DUEL. 


235 


The trial of the murderers will take place at the next assizes, but 
George will not be called as a witness, and he is only waiting to 
leave Paris until Mme. Brehal’s recovery, which will not be long. 
It has been arranged that she shall pass the summer in Switzerland 
and the winter in Italy. Georee will accompany her, and they will 
be married on their return from this lone: journey. 

The envious and the gossips will have had time to forget them; 
moreover, their enemies have disappeared. 

Corleon, after his misadventure at the Moucherons club, thought 
it prudent to leave France, and he did well, for, in raking up Pon- 
taumur’s past, the police obtained some very bad information in re* 
gard to his acolyte, who was found to be a rascal capable of anjr 
baseness. 

Mme. Fresnay,' that aunt who was not much better than her 
niece, and who contributed to her ruin, has eloped to Germany, and 
she will probably not return. 

Mme. Mezenc mourns the daughter whom she had guarded so 
badly, but sjie will lose nothing by her death for she inherited her 
property, and Mile. Mczenc had not renounced Maurice Saulieu’s 
bequest. The mother will have a lawsuit with ihe provincial 
cousins, but she will win it. 

Delphine made a success at her dehut on the stage of the Bouffes, 
and she has furnished her apartments gorgeously. She speaks no> 
more of Fernando, and she has sold the famous chiffonier which re- 
calle.l only unpleasant memories. 

And the doctor? 

The doctor throughly enjoys the repose purchased by two long 
months of tribulations. He has resumed his former habits, and he 
swears that he will never again undertake to serve as a second in a 
duel, still less follow clews and clear up mysteries. 

He has also entirely given up the practice of medicine. It was 
enough for him to have cured Mme. Brehal, atod to remain her 
friend. But he has not changed his philosophy, and he persists in 
maintaining, like Hr. Pangloss of Candide, that all is for the best in 
the best of worlds. 

And he now adds: AlPs well that ends well. 


THE END. 


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527 The Days of My Life 20 

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210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
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213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy... 20 

232 Love and Money; or, A Perilous 

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235 “It is Never Too Late to 
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109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire ......... 10 

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201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

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353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
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362 The Bride of Lammermoor.... 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

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393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

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61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

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99 Barbara’s History. Ame^a B. 

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103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell.. 10 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

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112 The Waters of Marah. John 


113 Mrs. Carr’s (Companion. M. G. 

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114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

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121 Maid of Athens. Justin Mc- 

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122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

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149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

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150 For Himself Alone. T. W. 

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151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

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156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

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160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

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161 The Lad}' of Lyons. Founded 

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170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

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174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

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178 More Leaves from the Journal 

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182 The Millionaire ^ 

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198 A Husband’s Story 10 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 

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219 Lady Clare : or, The Master of 

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257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
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285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her 
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298 Mitchelhurst Place. Margaret 

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rian 10 

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A Marriage of Convenience. 

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Philistia. Cecil Power 20 

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Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 20 

Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 
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Laura Jean Libbey . 20 

As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

Diana of the Crossways. George 

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At Any Cost Edward Garrett. 10 

The Lottery of Life. A Storv 
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Ago. John Brougham 20 

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A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 


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tunes of a Minstrel. Tony 

Pastor 20 

The Mysterious Hunter; or. 
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C. Carleton 20 

Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon . 20 

The Crime of Christmas Day. 
The author of “ My Ducats 

and My Daughter” 10 

The Red Cardinal. Frances 

Elliot 10 

Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

Keeling 10 

Introduced to Society. Hamil- 
ton Aid6 ' 10 

The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
lotte French 20 

Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood. . . 20 
Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 
Taylor 20 


313 

314 

322 

323 

327 

329 

330 

384 

335 

836 

338 

340 

341 

347 

350 

352 

354 

355 

356 

365 

366 

369 

37 ^ 

376 

381 

382 

383 

387 

389 

399 

403 

405 

406 

407 

426 


THE SEASIDE LIBBARY. — Pocket Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Continued, 


429 Boulderstone; or, New Men and 

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430 A Bitter Reckoning*. Author 

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432 The Witch’s Head. H. Rider 

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435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

436 Stella. Fann}- Lewald 20 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George Henry 

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443 The Bachelor of the Albany... 10 
450 Godfrey Helstone. Georgiana 

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452 In the West Countrie. May 

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457 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. Charles Marvin 10 

458 A Week of Passion; or, The 

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462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
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468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
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473 A Lost Son. Mary Linskill 10 


474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

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479 Louisa. Kath'arine S. Macquoid 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 
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491 Society in London. A Foreign 

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492 Mignon ; or, Booties’ Baby. Il- 

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493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

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501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

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510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

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512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. John 

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505 The Society of London. Count 

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509 Nell Haffenden. Tighe Hopkins 20 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
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532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

534 Jack. Alphonse Daudet 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
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540 At a High Price. E. Werner. . 20 

545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

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ORl>lIVARY EUITION. 


GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
(P.O.Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. 


The following works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Editior 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by th^ 
publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 Tlie Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow. * 10 

1231 The Freres ^ 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 IVIrs. Yereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule. 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire T 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilmenj. c,.« ... c «.o o o « W 


THE SEASIDE LIBBABY.— Ordinary Edition, 


63 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

-390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady' Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

810 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs aud other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA^DDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar. 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange • 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition, 


481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant ; 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest ' 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBEABY. — Ordinary Edition. 


329 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of VVildfell flail 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls ' 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Yeiidetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated ) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victofine; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story '20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and W ife 26 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 26 

76 The New Magdalen 10, 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name. 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Roffue’s Life _ 10 


TRE SEASIDE UBRABT. — Ordinary Edition, 


1151 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

005 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

028 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

071 The Frozen Deep 10 

090 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time... 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 ‘a Say Ho” 20 

J. FEHIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer. 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1669 The Headsman ; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

lb05 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or. The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1091 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKEHS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop.. 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times. 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBBABY. ^Ordinary Edition. 


118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20' 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

213 Barnaby Rudge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches. . 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF ‘^DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10' 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20' 

846 Dora Thorne 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 


TBJ3J bj£ASTI)£J 


^1 The Sin of a Lifetime. , . . . o.. .o ... c, . » St' 

1013 Lady Qwendoiioe's Dream ,o. , lii 

i018 Wife m Name Ouiy oo « . 2Q 

1044 Like No Otner Love . . . ....e. o. 10 

1060 A Woman’s War 10 


1072 Hilar 5 ^’s Folly o. . . •« , 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

1077 A Glided Sin....... U 


1081 A Bridge of Love. 

1085 The Fatal Lilies .0 « 

1099 Wedded and Parted 

1107 A Bride From the bea. ... . 

1110 A Rose in Thorns 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin. ...o «.o . 
1122 Redeemed by Love . . . 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring 

1127 Love’s Warfare 

1132 Repented at Leisure 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight o o .. . 

1209 Hilda 

1218 A Golden Heart. 

1266 Ingledew House o .. . 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 

1305 Love For a Day ; or, Under the Lilacs. . . . 

1357 Tne Wife’s Secret 

1393 Two Kisses 

1460 Between Two Sins...... 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil 

1704 Her Mother’s Sin 

1761 Thorns and Orange Blossoms . ... ...... . 

1844 Fair but False, and The Heiress ot Arne . 

1883 Sunshine and Roses 

1906 In Cupid’s Net 


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ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 

144 ^Phe Twin Lieutenants r o .. o . . 10 

151 The Russian Gipsy ..... o. .......... . , . , . ^ . 10 

155 The Count of Monte-Cristo(^’^i^?fe^ in One Volume), . . r 20 

160 The Black Tulip o y IC 

167 The Queen’s Necklace. ^ e* .a* o r o r . 2® 


THE 


New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AHEEICAN H0]y[E MAGAZINE. 

Price 25 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price S2.50 per Year. 


The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It contains 
everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. The fashions in dress 
which it publishes are new and reliable. Particular attention is devoted tc 
fashions for children of all ages. Its plates and descriptions will assist every 
lady in the preparation of her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and re- 
modeling old ones. The fashions are derived from the best houses and are 
always practical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make her own 
dresses with the aid of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These are carefully cut to 
measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the garment. They are use- 
ful in altering old as well as in making new clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of the magazine. 
Fancy work is carefully described and illustrated, and new patterns given in 
every number. 

All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home informa- 
tion, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes for cooking have 
each a department. 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duchess,” author 
of “Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, author of 
“Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “The House on the Marsh.” 

The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the best that 
can be had. 

We employ no canvassers to solicit subscriptions for The New York Fashion 
Bazar. All persons representing themselves as such are swindlers. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
per copy. Subscription price $2.50 per year. Address 

GEOEGE MUNEO, Puljlislier, 

17 to 27 Vande water Street, N. Y. 


P. O. Box 3751 


THE CELEBRATED 



SEAND, SQTJAEE AND UPRieHT PIANOS. 



FIRST FEIZE 

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Centennial Exnibi- 
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1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
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solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
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AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14tli Street, N. Y. 


FROM THE 
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PRINCIPLES OF 
THE OX-BRAIN 
AND THE GERM 
OF THE WHEAT 
AND OAT. 

BRAIN ARB NERTE FOOB. 

CROSBY’S 

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Is a standard with all Physicians who treat 
nervous or mental disorders. It builds up 
worn-out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neuralgria and sick headache. It promotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or over-exhaust- 
ion : regenerates weakened vital powers. 


“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves the sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.”— Bismarck. 


“ It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I have ever known for 
an over- worked brain.”— Gladstone. 


“ I really urge you to put it to the test”— 

Miss Emily Faithful. 

F. CROSBY CO., 56 W. 25th St., N. Y.; 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail $1. 


THE SEASIBE LIBRARY. 

CLOTH EDITION. 

HANDSOMELY BOUND. 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 


Oliver Twist 50e 

Martin Chuzzlewlt 50c 

The Old Curiosity Shop 60e 

David Copperfield 60e 

Dombey and Son 50e 

Nicholas NIekleby 50e 

Piekwlek Papers 50c 

Bleak House 50e 

Little Dorrlt 50e 

Barnaby Rudge 50e 

A Tale of Two Cities 50c 

Our Mutual Friend 50c 

Great Expectations 50c 

Christinas Stories 50c 

Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland. Ex- 
tra large type. By Lewis Carroll. 
With forty-two illustrations by John 
Tenniel 50o 


Any of tlit> above ivorks will be sent by mail, postpaid, 
on receipt of the prl^. Address 

GEORGIS MUNRO. Publisher, 

It to St Vandewater St., New York. 

P. 0. Box 3751. 









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